Arcane Ascension [Archmage]

[Jason]

Mind in the Gutter

Sullen gray skies refuse to part, casting the Lower City of Shattrath in a droll gloom. Filth is rampant, disease even more so. Vagrants litter the streets, and orphans scrape by filching from Arrakoa. Run-down arcanists drown in the morning wash. One in particular - Vainar Vinin'drel. About as run-down, washed-up, and worn out as any particular arcanist has a right. He lay in rugged urban clothing, his usual robes and adornments missing in favor of faded black vest and loose fitting leggings made of some unknown, roughly hewn fabric. Stiffly, with care, he unwinds himself, planting a hand on the ground to push himself up. He used to sleep in sheets of silk.

And to think, he was once supposed to be a Magister. Hard to conceive when half of the Kirin Tor believed him to be a raving lunatic. They were so smug and indifferent, they didn't even deign to investigate the cause. He's a young lad. The emotional stress of losing his family is driving him over the edge! they had said. Vainar had even began to think as much - but he always knew it was more complicated than such. Personality disorders don't work the way he had been influenced. An arcane malady. Vainar. Not so perfect after all.

Birds don't feel this free.

He struggles to his feet, beginning his now customary shamble down the waste-filled path. A few bums lift their shaggy heads as if wondering at hand-outs. Their expressions revert back to boredom as they see him. Another burnt out fel-user. He passes them, eyes searching out objects in the gloom. He spots a few Draenei and high elves making reparations to the district. It's long overdue, their purging of this lower city. The best way to purge? Tack on nicer walls, shine up the cobblestones, and try to get rich cheats to put up shop there for half price. Ingenious. Pathetic.

Bastards.

Few lights shine through the early morning veil. Disregarding the odd scuffling noise in most dark corners, all is oppressively silent as he makes his way through the shanty. He spies wounded veterans on a mat, sound asleep. A woman in scanty clothing hugs her knees on top of a step, shivering and looking about with an aura of overpowering hopelessness. He has never belonged so well. He remembered fondly his days among high society in Silvermoon, introducing himself by a fake name. A fake face. Magister Al'erix. Tarodil Sungazer. He drank their wine. Tasted their lips. Five minute friends. Five minutes of bliss.

His notoriety snuffed his talent as a mage. He had next to no one back at the Kirin Tor university. All of his records indicated dangerous and rash behavior, egocentricity, and a tongue sharp enough to cut diamond, with average to impressive arcane manipulation. Average to impressive. That was really the only part he'd ever paid attention to. Made him feel warm inside. Or was that the spell he was channeling?

His arcane addiction had only gotten worse. He was starting to get a rash on his body. He was bleeding from excessively scratching it, which only added to the numerous scars inflicted by...him. Bloody demon. If he had no arcane ability, he would have never been chosen. Still...the only drop of mana coming from Vainar would be a retaliation of fire. Soon enough. He understood what he had to do. This...Tothrezim...it bent him to it's will. It possessed power and strength Vainar wouldn't be able to circumvent alone. And all he had was himself. That is...unless...

He needed power. More of it. He needed an Archmage. The closest Archmage? Himself. If he breathed a damn word to a respected head of authority, he would be devoured in minutes. Tothrezim? How ridiculous! Their existence isn't even proven! Go home, boy. You always wanted attention. So, what made him eligible for tutoring from an Archmage? He hadn't been present in the Kirin Tor for some time. From his absence, a pseudo-psychological and magical evaluation would be in order. He intended to show them he was ready and eager.

Money. He needed money. Money meant a portal rune. A portal rune meant Dalaran. He would need new clothes. He had to look respectable. Robes. He shouldn't have left his robes. He was a bit more far gone than usual when he went off to visit Anaiya. He hadn't been thinking clearly. Had ruined everything. Now all he had to look forward to was that bastard son-of-a-naga Tothrezim.

"Fel," is the only word leaving Vainar's lips as he trudges up the stony pathway to the upper portion of the city. He'd had an idea regarding the Scryers. He has friends there. He might just be able to get a robe from them. Claim he was attacked by...demons.

Vainar manages a smile at his own remark as he flies up the lift toward the Scryer's Tier. He brushes his clothing down self-consciously, stepping forward onto the grand, elven terrace. The sun peeks through the clouds in a meek effort to shed healthier looking light, brightening things as if for dramatic effect. He brushes the thought away and continues stepping forward, veering to the left and looking for a familiar face. He spies a loose associate, Verimar, and bustles in his direction.

"Verim! Verimar! Hold a moment - it's Vainar!" They both grin as Verimar turns, clasping each other's arm and shaking once.

"You look like you're...holding together." He says jokingly.

"Just barely, though, just barely. Actually, I'd like to talk about that. I'm due for a meeting with the Kirin Tor soon, and I haven't any clean robes. Have any you could part with for a time? I had my belongings stolen by vagrants. Bloody layabouts." Vainar inquires - and lies - smoothly. Verimar rolls his eyes.

"Oh, how very typical. I hate leaving the Tier. Especially when I have to go through -that-." He frowns, then waves Vainar toward his tent. "Come on, I'll get you one you can work with. Afraid all I have are blue, red, and black. No purple." Vainar shrugs in response.

"I'm sure they won't mind terribly much, as long as it's sophisticated. Nothing too expensive. I don't know when I can be back here. Might be a while." Verimar nods, leading Vainar into his tent and opening a trunk, in which he rummages about. He extricates flowing blue robes with golden embroidery.

"Will this do?" He inquires, turning around. Vainar glances at it and back to the entrance at the tent, at which he'd been staring profusely. He felt like a four armed demon would plow through the flap any moment now. Goosebumps were crawling their way up his spine.

"Yes...yes that's perfect. Thank you. I will repay you, my friend." Vainar gives a short bow as he says this, taking the robes.

"Not at all. Just be sure to stop by more often, eh? By the way...you look terrible. No offense." He says, voice only slightly laced with humor.

"I feel terrible. Good day, Verimar." Vainar says brusquely.

"See you around." He replies unceremoniously. Vainar leaves through the entrance flap in due haste, stripping by Varimar's tent and pulling the robes over his head. A tad short. Verimar was nearly three inches less his height. Still, they served their purpose. He spies a pretty young elf girl sitting alone on a bench. He arranges his hair into a more attractive shape, exhaling and blinking a few times to wake himself. He steps forward and seats himself beside her, studying a group of playing children suavely. She glances toward him and reverts her gaze back to a merchant tent a dozen or so feet away.

"Can I help you?" She asks icily. Vainar rose to the challenge.

"Hardly, Miss, but I was hoping I could help you." The woman rolls her eyes, clearly expecting the tiresome line.

"Look, sweety, I-"

"Call me Al'erix. Magister Al'erix. A pleasure to make the acquaintance of one so comparably radiant to the sun." He smiles leisurely. He'd done this too many times. He was making himself sick. Fel.

The woman is clearly caught off guard, and struggles for a response for a few moments. "You really are making a mistake, sir..." She says politely. Vainar tilts his head, looking over at her now. She looks sidelong at him, delicate chin tilted upward, angled eyes and tapered nose completing a face suitable for poetry. Perhaps he'd aimed too high this time. Then again, he did have magic. He stretches his arm up and over the bench to rest behind the woman, who just lifts an eyebrow as if he'd just pulled a rusty copper from his pocket. His hand now hidden from her sight, he moves it in a series of complex gestures, casting a charm spell over here. Her passive facial expression lulls and her eyes glaze slightly. "I-I'm sorry, what did you say your name was?" She asked airily. My, she was a schoolgirl again. Pathetic.

"Al'erix, my lady. At your service. That is...a lovely earring. May I see it closer?" The beautiful elf leans forward, tilting her head slightly and blushing.

"It...was my mother's. She was quite fond of jewelry, and are...my favorites as well." She clears her throat lightly as Vainar leans forward, sliding his hand to her waist. As the shock of what he just did sets in, he pulls the coin purse free of her belt and jerks his hand backward, tucking his prize in a fold within his robes. He couldn't believe what he was doing.

"The -fel- are you doing to my wife?!" An angry voice calls. A rather tall elf trudges forward, swirling robes doing a poor job of concealing the man's rather uncharacteristically large biceps. Oh fel.

Vainar gets to his feet and raises his hands. "I was merely inspecting your wife's...accessories!" What was he saying? Terrible! Go back! Go back!

A fist is thrown before Vainar realizes that shit had just gotten real. It collides with his face, and Vainar lets it roll with his momentum as he swings backward. It would still bruise. Fel. Reacting, Vainar drops low and aims a punch at the man's groin. Aforementioned Angry Elf-Macho-Male twists his hips, deflecting the punch off his thighs. He then turns back and jams a knee into Vainar's skull.

Vainar reels backward, landing on his buttocks. The squabble was already drawing eyes. Vainar smiles and cocks his head as the burly elf draws closer. Now wasn't the time to flex his pride muscle. "Sir, you misunderstand. Your wife, she is so lovely! I just couldn't help myself! She was a bit nervous the first few times, but after a couple more goes she just started playing along. And my, is she fun to play with!" The elf roars something incoherent and launches himself forward. Vainar snaps his head sideways and blinks far to the right, rolling as he materializes and throwing his hands up. Invisibility drapes his frame. Flawless. Beautiful. He couldn't do it better a second time.

The Macho-Elf continues yelling angrily as Vainar slips away, running toward the rising platform. Unable to see his feet, he trips over a child rolling on the ground and falls on his face. Swearing profusely into the ground, he gets up and ends the spell, already feeling the draw on his mana. He breaks into a sprint, stepping onto the platform just as it begins it's descent. A grin creeps onto Vainar's face as he holds his new coins up. Sure, he felt horrible - but it was definitely worth the guilt.

He drops in on his usual arcane products store, aloof and collected for the first time in months, invigorated and filled with hope. He purchases three teleportation runes and a decorative staff, stepping outside and channeling the appropriate teleportation spell to Dalaran; and a new life.

[Jason]

Head in the Clouds

"Name and status, Magi?" Archmage Talathor's deep, bravado-filled voice inquires, the words rebounding off the Violet Citadel's walls. Vainar, kneeling before the staircase, raises his head to look at the three Arcanists atop the elevation.

"Vainar Vinin'drel, Archmagister. Unaccounted, sir." He forces the words out, embarrassed. Not even status among the Kirin Tor. Preparation in it's most dire state. The mage in gray robes to the Archmage's left leans in, muttering softly to him. The Archmage's eyebrows furrow, and he turns his gaze back to Vainar.

"My colleague, Evoker Baldar, has made me aware of a certain condition you possess," the gruff Archmage says. Vainar's heart leaps into his throat. Baldar? The Baldar from his Apprenticeship? He locks his eyes on the gray-robed Mage. Gray-Robes inspects Vainar with black eyes. Yes. Definitely he.

Baldar had been an apprentice when Vainar was fresh out of the Academy. Vainar, unwitting of any further conflicts that could, in some insanity-filled fantasy, arise in the future, had given the boy no end of trouble. He would turn his books into other objects so that he would lose them. Melt his finely tailored shoes to the floor while he was in rapt concentration over a paragraph, and generally give him all sorts of hell that was quite undeserved. Now, it seems Baldar had risen through the ranks in the years

Vainar was gone. He was now right under the pen of an Archmage within the Kirin Tor. The lamb didn't stray far from the flock - much to Vainar's disadvantage.

Vainar looks back to the Archmage. "I assure you, Archmagister, I suffer from no such thing any longer. I rid myself of that plague long ago."One year. That's...long ago, yes? "In fact, I am in much a better state as I have ever been." Lie. But hey, who didn't botch their resume?

"Yes, well, we will determine that shortly. You have been gone long, Mr. Vinin'drel?"

"I have, Archmagister. Many years," Vainar replies respectfully.

"And why is that?"

"I have many obligations to my kingdom, and to my friends. The Kirin Tor are not the only ones with a hold on my allegiance, I am sad to say, and recent events press my time. I had been working against the Lich King, here in Northrend, for much of this time." That wasn't a complete lie. He had spent some time in Northrend with a contingent of Horde forces.

"This is understood. Very well then. You will be reevaluated and, upon declaration of safety, be allowed back into the Magisterial society in full. Please go down the hall to the right and speak with Diviner Jarrod. He will see to it." Vainar gets to his feet and bows steeply, glancing at Baldar's glowering face for a final time before making his way toward the hall entrance. Now he had to shine. He had to reaffirm himself with the Kirin Tor, or he would have no hope of finding an Archmage to instruct him. Archmagi residing outside of the Kirin Tor was rare, as there were so few left. So few to claim the title.

He emerges onto the open grass field. A human male in purple, a glowing orb resting in his palm and a book in the other, stands in the middle, with several apprentices grouped around him. Now was the time to impress or die. He shifts his staff to the other hand and walks forward, feet crunching on the crisp grass.

"And remember, scrying is not to be used to view the opposite sex. We're all adults here. Well...some of us." He looks pointedly at a meek looking blood elf, who grins widely in response. "Dismissed. We'll meet here tomorrow." He lingers, speaking individually with a few students and patting them on the back as they move off in disintegrating packs.

Vainar strides forward, raising his free hand in greeting. Jarrod raises his own hand and throws the orb off to the side lazily. "Come for a few pick-ups?" He asks brightly. Vainar takes to him instantly.

"Actually, I'm here for reevaluation. Mandatory," Vainar admits glumly.

"Aah. Out in the green pastures too long?" he inquires further, taking the confession in excellent stride.

"Correct. Lost track of time." He grins at the Diviner, shrugging.

"No worries, no worries. Happens some of the time, of course. Lot of moving going on these days, what with the wars, plague, Scourge, Dragonflights...quite a mess. Well then, which would you like to do first, the psychological or Arcane evaluation? Entirely up to you." He smiles pleasantly. At random, Vainar replies;

"The psychological test, I think." He leans a bit on his staff. "What does it involve?"

"Oh, nothing much, really. I just have to ask you a few questions, then take a small look-see, confirm all's well. It's boring, but necessary!"

"Of course, of course. I am ready to begin."

"Superb! Come, let's take a seat," he replies jovially, turning on his heel and striding over to a bench. He sits, folding one leg of the other and smoothing folds from his robes. "Now...we will begin with your name." He nods, prompting Vainar to speak.

"Vainar Vinin'drel," he answers simply as he sits, resting his staff against his knee.

"Very good, Mr. Vinin'drel. If you would please, where do you see yourself ten years from now? Home with a family, exploring the world, etcetera and such?"

Vainar thinks for a moment. "To be honest, I had not considered it much. I don't plan ahead so far - but I do expect I will still be researching and expanding my skills. There is always something to be learned, and always those to teach."

"Very good, sir, very good. What, in your opinion, makes a person successful, Mr. Vinin'drel?"

"Knowledge," Vainar answers smoothly. "Knowledge is the fruit of success. Theory, law, theology, ethics, morals...understanding is the enemy of ignorance - therefore, ignorance is my enemy." Jarrod nods, obviously satisfied with the answer.

"What makes a mage a good mage, to you?" The Diviner asks. The question surprises Vainar.

"Skill and...understanding. Skill in manipulation, understanding in theory. These are the things I look for in another mage to judge their competence," Vainar says. A good answer, to be sure.

"Very well. Do you own a cat, Mr. Vinin'rel?" Diviner Jarrod asks, not missing a beat.

Vainar misses a few beats before saying; "No...I do not own a cat. Is that relevant?" He arches an eyebrow. Jarrod chuckles, smiling all the while.

"Forgive me. Next question. We're almost through. This shall be a scenario. A rude high elf cuts in front of you as you go to buy reagents. He shows blatant disregard for you having been there first, and makes no move at apology or acquiescence. What, in all honestly, would you do?"

Vainar smirks, tapping his chin with a pointer finger. "If you are by any chance describing the high elf who 'tended' to my dragonhawk, then I would promptly turn him around and give him a stern talking-to." Jarrod laughs, pitching forward slightly.

"This is why I leave everything to draenei! You give them a rusty sword, they'll return it shiny and new without asking! Alright, now that that's out of the way, I think we may go ahead with the prying bit. Just relax, it's a pretty easy procedure." He rubs his hands together. "Ready?"

Vainar nods, bowing his head. Jarrod's hand touches it. This was the particularly difficult part. Vainar had spent weeks since inventing the plan practicing on clearing his mind completely of suspicious things. Around a month, he was able to go a few minutes in meditation. He was confident that that would be more than enough time. Otherwise, the Diviner would definitely find something wrong in his mind. Demons weren't exactly accepted in Dalaran. With due haste, he clears his mind of all, focusing utterly on a blank sheet of parchment. In his mind, he imagines a quill drawing scripture on the parchment - bits of arcane writing on various subjects, ranging from Transmutation theory and Amorphous elemental spawns, trying to introduce stray thoughts such as wondering at the next meal, wondering at if Jarrod could read his thoughts, and the like in order to ward off suspicion.

Thirty seconds pass.

A minute.

Jarrod sighs. "All done! I must say, your take on Transmutation is quite brilliant! Reduce the Arcane charges to zero, you say?"

Vainar grins, his mind exploding in joy at his success. "D'you think so? Yes, yes. Just my little attempts at progression. See, I was attempting to cross transmute certain solid objects with other liquid objects. I thought reducing the charges to zero would rid the project of interference, but to my surprise, it simply exploded!"

"Aah, I see your mistake. They need the arcane charges in order to interact. The spell just recoiled in on itself and..well...boom!" He makes a puffing motion with his hands. This man was amusing.

"Indeed. Shall we proceed?" Vainar offers jauntily, confidence now in full swing.

"Indeed we shall. We will run a basic course of all the schools, and then see how you do with mixing. I've plenty of time, so don't rush." He gets up and motions Vainar with his hand. "This way!" he exclaims, strolling to the center of the field. "We shall start you off with some Divination. It's my favorite, you know." His eyes twinkle.

"Clearly," Vainar says, grinning ear to ear now. What a likable fellow for a human. With that in mind, he holds his hand up, lifting the scrying orb at the edge of the field with Arcane and reeling it in. He grasps it in mid air, holding his free hand over it and concentrating on a spell of scrying. An image is procured within the orb due haste. Jarrod brightens intensely and steps forward, peering at the image.

"I don't understand, is-" his eyes suddenly widen, followed quickly by his mouth. "It's me! From behind! Ha!" He roars with laughter, then straightens up and puts a hand on his stomach. He forcibly staunches his mirth, coughing several times. "Oh, that's good. Impressive, too. Nice image on that. Well then, looks like it's on to Transmutation. Your specialty?"

"It is, actually. I've spent the most time with it thus far."

"Well, continue."

Vainar nods, stroking his beard in thought. Suddenly, a thought comes to him. He allows a slow smile to creep onto his face. He looks up, disappearing within a second of raising his chin.

Jarrod looks around, an expectant grin on his face. After a minute or so the grin fades, replaced by a look of perplexity. As if on a que, a floating blue shape enters his vision in the shape of Vainar, falling gracefully toward the ground in slow deliberation. He inspected his nails, feet slightly bent for the impact with the ground. Upon landing, he strolls forward and waves his hand dramatically.

"Brilliant! Blink and Slow Fall?"

"Well, I had to stay up for a while, so I also kept aloft."

The Diviner just looks at him dumbly. "You...'kept aloft'?" he asks incredulously.

"Yes. I cheated. Instead of slowing my fall with time transmutation, I just conjured an Arcane Barrier and reinforced it so that I would not simply slip off. The trick is to focus the defense not in deflection, but in solidity. Instead of repelling something, it simply acted as an invisible wall."

"Yes, yes, I know that. I don't know many capable of doing it, is all," he admits, running a hand through his air and looking up. "Well...continue on, then."

Vainar continues demonstrating his more than adequate talent. Being embroiled in constant conflict and repetitive interaction with magic had increased his skill and understanding dramatically. He manages Mid to high level spells in seven schools, and manages clever feats in the other two. More than once, Jarrod stopped Vainar to ask him how he did exactly what he had just done.

"You are not average stock, Vainar. Not at all. You pass with flying colors, on all accounts. Frankly, I'm flustered. I usually get run-down hedge mages and irritable old men!" He exclaims.

"Sorry to disappoint you. I am accepted?"

"Oh, without a doubt. I will meet with Archmagister Talanor personally. In the mean time, feel very free to find a room in the commons. You may have to share, though. We're a bit packed. Saving space."

"The rooms are doubles now?" Vainar asks, surprised.

"Yes, actually. New for you, I know. It's been necessary for some time now; plenty of apprentices, plenty of magi in the Kirin Tor fold, thank the Light."

"Very well. Have a good evening, Jarrod."

"Aye, grand evening to you as well!"

Vainar turns, walking in the direction of the exit. From his peripheral vision, a purple robed figure appears, sauntering in his direction. He slows, coming to a halt to accept the human. It was a man - gray hair, thin build, a purple robe adorned with the emblem of the Kirin Tor, face ingrained with wrinkles and experience, literally topped with a floating crown of purple gems and violet hued metal. All about him was power. It showed in the way he walked, the way he carried himself with a confident stride and raised chin. Obviously an authority figure. [left][/left]

"Vainar Vinin'drel. Sin'dorei, red hair, green eyes, approximately six feet, one hundred and seventy pounds with a body type not typical with magi. Used to trying times - recently fell upon hard times and ended up in a gutter. Borrowed the robe from a shorter friend, and hastily used what little money he had to get a simple staff. An admirable effort - it is appreciated. You are quite puzzling."

The man had just reeled off all of this information with unfathomable confidence, seemingly aloof the entire time. Vainar blinks several times, quite unsure what to say.

"I am Archmagister Garrin Vindalas. A pleasure to meet you, Sin'dorei." The Archmage bows steeply, his staff behind his back.

"I am honored...Archmagister. How...how did you know all of that?" Vainar asks, radiating insecurity for the first time in hours.

"One third intuition, one third magic, and one third prior knowledge. The clever mage combines all faculties of the mind." He smiles serenely. "Wouldn't you say?"

Vainar nods vigorously, hoping to cover up his nervousness.

"Very good. Come, walk with me. I'd like to speak with you on the Arcane."

Luck. Vainar thought he'd finally run out. Now all he needed was talent - but talent no longer needed him. He pushes the thought away, smiling and nodding. They both set off down the steps into the Violet Citadel, beginning a conversation that would swallow the afternoon.

[Jason]

Out of the Frying Pan

"-are completely off the beaten path. Perhaps he is ra-... not the best of records, no, bu-...-are you really assuming that-...-being antagonistic and narrow minded as an apprentice. Yes I dare! I dare say so! How dare you impede my choice, Evoker! This is no concern of yours, and your own pride belittles you further. Begone from my sight."

The tone and volume of the Archmage's voice is uncharacteristic of his almost constant state of calm aloofness. Garrin didn't strike Vainar as the short-fused type - or the relatively emotional person. In his long conversations with the man, it became apparent he could maintain the effect as long as he wished with uncanny deftness. If men could indeed be robots of gentlemanly behavior, he would be the first among humans to be considered such. Of that, Vainar had no doubt. He had not been able to discern any behavioral quirks, no habitual ticks - not even a recognizable accent. Each word is pronounced with care, sticking to the letter in crisp clarity with minimal use of contractions.

Vainar shuffles in the hallway. He was quite guilty of eavesdropping. He had meant to visit the Archmage concerning his taking of students. Coincidental he would catch such a suspicious sounding conversation...but who was it he was speaking with? As if in answer, the knob begins to turn. Out of instinctual reaction, Vainar casts an invisibility spell over himself, flattening his body against the wall on the winding staircase.

Baldar, face inflamed with rage, stomps out of the door frame, taking the stairs two at a time on the way down, muttering under his breath angrily. If Baldar had been protesting a choice...could it be? He'd made it this far, he'd assumed his luck would hold fast. Still, hoping for something and seeing the dream come true before your eyes was quite another thing. He almost broke into ecstatic glee until he realized; he could be wrong.

With that revelation in mind, he relinquishes the invisibility spell and steps into the room. Garrin stands at the far end of the room, stacking parchment papers and whistling softly a tune that sounded High Elven. Vainar opens his mouth to speak, only to be interrupted.

"I've come to the conclusion - through careful study of the history of Azeroth as we know it - that elves are really to blame for all our troubles. The trials of Mount Hyjal, The Alliance and Horde war, Worgen, Those damnable bugs in the desert..." He never once looks up from his shuffling as he speaks, laying the sheets off to the side and sitting in his desk nonchalantly.

Vainar decides a quickfire response was in order.

"Perhaps you should blame Terenas for the war against the Horde - and mind you, I'm rather patriotic. You often meet the jaded Sin'dorei loyalist, but I've pride in aiding my allies. Besides - I've found that more often than not it is the kaldorei that are to blame for...most of it."

Garrin idles away with a quill as if he hadn't heard Vainar speak. He stays thus for almost a full minute. Just as Vainar begins to grow frustrated, he opens his mouth.

"I would say it is...half and half. One could only wonder at the burden of apprenticing one. But I detest dismissal without prior knowledge. I have never had an apprentice, as it is, and I think now would be the appropriate time to invest in one. The more Archmagi the better and such. Before I get...senile..." He frowns and looks at Vainar. "Few have the skill. Even fewer have the knowledge. But for those who have the skill, there are those who can endow...the knowledge. Vainar Vinin'drel, will you accept this apprenticeship?"

Vainar stands, not quite seeing anything as his mind reels. Casting a pyroblast didn't feel this good.

"I...accept." Vainar says with finality. He smooths down his robes as if to appear more respectable.

"You hesitated. Tell me why."

"I was only thinking. Thinking about what this means for me."

Garrin waves a hand. "It means nothing. Prestige, political power, old men spitting drivel in your ear...nothing. It's a title. Archmagi are not founded on their titles, they are founded on their abilities and wisdom. We are an echelon above an echelon. We are the best of the best. Arugal, Aethas, Nielas Aran, Khadgar, Kel'thuzad - damn his very name - and all these renowned magi. All Archmagi. Now, don't get worked up, there are hundreds of Archmagi. Three hundred, though? That would be pushing the marker. This is small. Even the towns nowadays boast thousands of citizens. Three hundred, Vainar. Do you understand what kind of a position that puts you in?"

Vainar bites the inside of his cheek, looking off to the side. What Garrin was saying made sense. Archmagi were powerful in skill and influence. Some in one area more than others. Being an Archmage could ruin him.

Or it could save me.

"I understand, Archmagister. I am ready."

*_____________________________________________________*

Vainar throws himself onto the cot, his simplistic staff clattering to the floor beside it. His tutoring had not started like he'd thought it would. After Vainar had agreed and signed the writ, he had expected Garrin to begin divulging ancient magical secrets, bringing out age old tomes, and summoning legions of fire elementals. He did not.

He drilled him with question...after question...after question. After perhaps the fiftieth question, Vainar decided to ask him exactly what it was he was doing. With prompt indifference, Garrin responded with the curt, yet ever aloof response;

"I must test your knowledge before I divulge in expanding it."

It was a good enough answer. He was tested on several subjects, ranging from magical history to arcane theory. The applications of the schools of magic, the most common subclasses, and exactly what made a mage different from a man with a pickaxe. The old Archmage gave no inclination as to whether Vainar ever answered a question right or wrong. Indeed, he seemed to hardly care. It was maddening.

After the lengthy exam, he began a lecture on Arcane theory. It was so complex, Vainar could hardly follow along. Theory had never been his strong suit.

"A good day to start with. Rise before dawn tomorrow, wash, and join me in the courtyard downstairs. There will be new robes and a staff waiting for you when you arise."

Vainar nodded in compliance, bowing before exiting the room. He'd made his way to his chambers, taking note that the human female sharing the room was out once more. No doubt reproducing like a rat. He chides himself for the jibe. As he, as mentioned before, lies on his cot he imagines himself with apprentice magi kneeling at his feet, eyes downcast with respect.

Archmage Vainar.

Fel yes.

[Jason]

Warning: Mild Profanity
-----------------------------------------

And Into the Fire

Severe head trauma. Ungodly, thought-obliterating head trauma. The cruel cosh of the mind; critical thinking. Vainar had spent the last fourteen straight hours staring at the pages of a book with not to eat but a bowl of grapes. The expansive work had to have been over two-thousand pages in ridiculously small handwriting that caused him to scrutinize the text constantly. The result had been a migraine after approximately four hours. The next ten were sheer hell. Each chapter of the arcane tome on Arcane Theory was to be summarized. Each chapter is approximately...very fucking large. The joints in his fingers were stiffening by chapter three.

Now fourteen and a half hours into the massive text, with half a book to go, he feels like an intrepid insomniac. He fights off the urge to take a dwarven blunderbuss to his head and pull the trigger. He felt like he wouldn't even need it. The words he reads go into his mind and disappear in a maddening quagmire and never resurface. He had to have the entire book summarized and condensed for easy, quick study in three days for a friendly, scholarly debate that would most likely leave Vainar pounding his skull against a wall in frustration before breakfast.

And on to the next. He thought he'd escaped torture.

He idly taps his quill against the table, glaring at the word "transfigure" with a hungry, yet vacant look. Completely out of it. Slowly, as if easing it's way into his consciousness, the sound of a jiggling door knob permeates his stupor. He snaps his head to the door-knob-in-question, staring at it for a moment. It responds with an anticlimax of silence. Already frustrated and on the brink of snapping into a fit of narcissistic rage, Vainar extricates himself from his seat (in the most forceful way one could execute an extrication), stomping over to the door and wrenching at the handle. To his surprise, it doesn't budge. He puts both hands on the knob and pulls with all of his strength. It moves not a millimeter.

Now at his wit's end, he sprints to the window and yanks at it. It stays firm, as if glued to the frame. Bloody hell.

He runs to the middle of the room, sweat beading at his forehead. He stands there in agitation, hands curling into fists. He snarls and lunges at the doorway, firing a strong wave of arcane at the door. The spell reflects, slamming into Vainar and sending him careening through the air and into the solid stone wall. He slumps to the floor, his breath heavy. The stone underneath him feels hot to the touch, and it dawns on him that it may not be nerves that cause sweat to gather on his brow. He pushes himself to his feet, breath now coming in ragged gasps as the floor begins to heat at an alarming rate and the air turns stale and warm as it goes down his esophagus. He coughs, stumbling forward and nearly collapsing from exhaustion.

Through sheer force of will, he concentrates on the door, sending a mental probe of arcane forward. It strikes the barrier and stops. Clenching his teeth, he presses forward and begins deciphering the Arcane coding, bit by bit - strand by strand. He snarls at the devilry at play, pulling his blue robes over his head and throwing them aside. It does little to alleviate the searing heat. With renewed concentration, he redoubles his efforts, focusing completely on the arcane barrier. At the point of collapsing, his mind shifts, and he recognizes a pattern in the door coding. He laughs maniacally in excitement, constructing a spell on whim and casting it upon the door. The spell enthralling the door collapses, though not visibly.

Without testing if his formula was correct, he barges forward, throwing a lazy wave of arcane in full sprint. The door splinters, flying outward in pieces, followed closely by Vainar as he hurls himself outward and away from the crippling heat. He feels nothing as he rolls like a ragdoll down the steps and into the ground level antechamber. He feels nothing, except the sweet, sweet embrace of comatose.

*_____________________________________________________*

"My apprentice is lying on the ground half naked, salivating profusely. I worry about my recent decisions and their validity." The very familiar droning voice was muttering above him. Vainar suddenly starts upward, eyes flying open. He climbs to his feet and turns to glare at Garren, venom in his voice as he says;

"That was too far, Archmagister. I am not a plaything! That was not a test, that was torture!"

Garren looks on at Vainar with a look of agitation and slight confusion. The most emotion Vainar had ever seen from the man.

"I assure you, apprentice, I have no idea what you are talking about. It's morning. I simply came to check on your studies thus far. Imagine my annoyance at finding you half naked upon the foot of the stairs! I will furthermore prohibit any sexual interaction whilst under my tutoring. Unnecessary dis-"

"It wasn't a woman! I was attacked last night! My doors and windows were magically sealed, and I was almost burned alive in my room. I only managed to get the door open in time to escape with my life."

Garren does not but stare back at Vainar with a stony face. After a few moments of close scrutiny, he lifts his hand, palm glowing blueish white. Before Vainar has a moment to question, they both teleport on the spot. Before Vainar can blink, the two of them materialize in Vainar's room. It appears as if nothing had happened, save the shattered door fragments littering the staircase from out the empty door frame. Garren approaches the frame, running his hands over the stone partitions in which the door once lie, eyes closed - no doubt probing.

"Your man...was an intricate spell-weaver. Very careful...very precise. It is quite familiar, really. Whoever did this, I have witnessed creating magic before. I am very sure of it."

"Well then who the f**k was it?" Vainar yells.

Garren's face wrinkles in disgust at the curse. "I am aware that such words exist in the Common Language, but I would ask you to use such mild displays of idiocy in brevity. As for your question, I can not tell you. Now, describe to me the events, in precise chronology."

Vainar obliges, explaining how he had been studying when he was alarmed by the jiggling knob, and the events following. The Archmage just looked on, expressionless. He seemed to not even hear Vainar, but he assumed the old man did. Very little escaped him.

"Judging from the the recounted events, and the nature of the spells themselves, this was organized by a very powerful spell caster. Their knowledge of Arcane is just as potent as their use of mana. I will so far to say that I doubt an Archmagister is the culprit - I can't imagine any well-to-do Archmagister would be so very...conspicuous. Come. We will report this to the Kirin Tor, then we will continue on as if nothing had happened. Bring your notes, and put a robe on, if you would please. Skip to, now!" He picks his way through the debris and down the stairs.

He stares after the Archmage and looks about, shivering slightly. Who would want him dead?

Oh...right. Everyone did.

I hate everything.

[Jason]

An Ego...

"Me? But...why me?" pouts Diviner Jarrod, arms crossed and expression torn between worry and apprehension. Vainar had told him of the events of a the night of his attack a few nights ago. In quite vivid detail.

"Because you're the Divination Instructor, Jarrod! Who better to find my man?" Vainar protests, trying to make the Diviner see some modicum of sense. Jarrod just rubs his face, turning around.

"This isn't my business." he mutters, grabbing his staff and turning back to the doorway in which Vainar stood. "Fine. Take me to the place, I'll see what I can see." Vainar smiles at his words, inclining his head and turning on his heel. They walk quickly to Vainar's old room, picking their up way past uncleared debris in the stairway.

Vainar runs a hand through his hair, gesturing around at the room. "Anywhere is fine. The door fragments are probably still hot, and the whole room was worked on by magic. Whoever it was probably didn't think about their magical fingerprint." Jarrod nods as he listens, moving to the doorway and running his hands along the jagged tears in the frame. Vainar turns, moving to the window and pushing it open, though half expecting it to still be jammed closed by Arcane. He sticks his head out, looking down on Dalaran from three stories up, breathing the fresh air.

Jarrod clears his throat behind Vainar. "Could you...move from the window, d'you think?" Vainar exhales one last breath of clean air before bringing his head back in, stepping down from the platform. Jarrod steps up, peering out over the city with squinted eyes. He places his hands on the stones of the wall under the port, Arcane magic seeping into it.

For minutes they stand there, neither moving much. Finally, Jarrod steps down and looks to the ground absently, contemplating.

"I think your attacker was well educated. Seemed that way. But something seems...off. The magic, I mean. It's uncouth. Unwholesome. I don't really know how to explain it. If magic had a personality, I'd say this one is...bad." He shrugs his shoulders. "Wish I could tell you more, but I can't do much with that. There's no Arcane traces to start from. They must have cleaned up after you escaped. Sorry, Vainar. Good luck with it." Jarrod pats Vainar's shoulder, turning and walking out of the room.

Vainar growls with frustration as he leaves. "Ridiculous..." he mutters. He steps up to the window again, looking down on the streets of Dalaran. He focuses intently on a spot by a lamppost, turning his concentration into Arcane and teleporting. He steps away from the metal pole, adjusting the cuffs of his robes and making his way toward the sewers. If he was going to get the answers he needed, he would probably find them there.

He steps through the larch arch of the tunnel, into the dark depths of underground Dalaran. A dangerous place, for dangerous people. Vainar was a dangerous person. He grins to himself. Very dangerous. He turns into an unused corridor, thinking intently to himself. He didn't know exactly who to go to. He decided to start with the jaded magical community. After all, it was only logi-

A blinding white light fills Vainar's vision just as pain explodes at the back of his head. He crumples to the ground, catching himself and attempting to push himself back up. A blunt object slams into the base of his skull. He moves no more.

*_____________________________________________________*

The first sensation Vainar feels is pain. Pain hitting his temple with a battering ram. Then comes the steady sound of water falling into a pool of liquid, murmuring voices masked under it's din. He feels the cold, dirty stone floor his face is pressed against. After a few minutes, he wiggles his fingers. Finding that a success, he opens the eye not pressed into the ground. The lighting is low, and the small chamber is filthy. Boxes are scattered about, and a drainpipe spills water into a small reservoir. A table sets off against a wall, with two men sitting and eating at it. A slightly bloody cudgel sits on the box behind a man with a purple cloak. For some reason, the sight sends thrills of fear up Vainar's spine.

Involuntarily, Vainar squirms against his bonds, ropes tied at the wrists behind his back. With frightening speed, the two men jump from their chairs, Purple Cloak grabbing his cudgel and taking hold of Vainar's arm. The other man grabs Vainar's opposite arm, and they hoist him to his feet and drag him to a bare wall. "Stay there. Do not move. Do not sit." Purple Cudgel growls in a deep voice. He shoves a hood over Vainar's head, pushing him up to the wall.

"Who are you? Who do you work for?" Vainar snaps. Nobody answers. Nobody makes a sound. "Where did you go?!" he screams. With a growl, he steps away from the wall and turns, only to feel the familiar blunt trauma of a cudgel. He stumbles back and hits the wall, sliding down. The same rough hands from before pick him back up and set him facing the wall again. Madness. It was madness.

It was torture.

He stands, and made no movement. Hears nothing. After an hour, he begins sobbing into the hood.

[Jason]

The Size of the Sun

Nothing. Not a damn thing would come. After Vainar's head had cleared sufficiently, he had tried relentlessly to cast a spell. The Arcane just wasn't working. He guessed there was some sort of rune ward blocking his access to it. Even if they destroyed the barrier now, Vainar is too weak to fight in his state. For hours - countless, mind-flaying hours - they had kept him on this exercise. When he tried to sleep against the wall, the rough hands came again with a strike to the ear and a muttered abuse.

His hood had been wet with tears, only recently dry. Where was pride? It didn't even seem like anyone was there. Nobody to witness his weakness. It had to stop. All of it had to stop - Vainar was falling apart at the seams, and the seams had never been very skillfully sewn.

"I'll tell you...I'll tell you anything. All you want to know, I'll tell you!" he groans. Nobody answers. "Damn it, listen to me! I know you're there, I'll tell you EVERYTHING. WHERE THE f**k ARE YOU?" he screams, use of Common curses appearing naturally. He hears a shifting sound behind him as a mace hits him in the back of the head with enough force to stagger him against the wall. Two pairs of hands again grab him under the armpits, but drag him back and seat him on a stool. Sitting. Sweet bliss.

They tear his hood off. Again there was Cudgel. Beside him was his accomplice, a man with a petulant face offset by a muscular body, albeit rather unkempt. Cudgel's dark brown hair clung to his scalp, recently cut bald. Neither were as tall as Vainar, but they were both stronger. "Petulance" looked to be missing a finger, and the wound seemed shoddily cauterized. He crosses his arms as if indignant.

"So go on. Talk." Petulance says. Vainar looks between the two, struggling for words, wishing for them to come.

"W-what do you want?" he pleads. They both laugh dryly. Petulance slaps him in the face. Not too bad. Stings. Cudgel brings his fist down on his forehead. A bit more of a sting. Vainar shuts his eyes, head lolling to the side. Before he can blink, Petulance grabs him by the shoulders from behind as another fist comes down, striking him in the throat. Then another in his stomach. Cudgel continues beating Vainar relentlessly, stopping only to groan and catch his breath as his hand bleeds from the knuckles. Petulance drags Vainar off the stool, soon accompanied by Cudgel. They lift him and push him against the wall. He feels the hood coming down over his head once more, and the hands leave. Utter silence rules once more.

Hours more pass by. Excruciatingly long hours. Vainar wondered when he would finally collapse. Eventually, one of them pulls his hood off and puts a bottle to his lips, giving him a few drinks before pulling the hood back over his hood and disappearing once more.

Another hour goes by...

*_____________________________________________________*

Vainar recovers, if only slightly. He lifts his head off his chest and halts his thoughts, probing about the chamber with his mind. He feels the wards all around. It was more of a collaborative set of runes than anything. He hadn't seen them when they had removed his hood, so they must be either inside or inscribed on the walls. A bead of sweat gathers under the hood on his brow, despite the chilling temperature. He focuses on the wards, attempting to discern what he can about them.

The magic was strong. This was obviously the work of a well-practiced mage with ample power. Perhaps several, but he could only feel one. He grits his teeth and focuses with more zeal. What are you, damn it, Vainar thinks to himself, how can I disable you...

It is to no avail. The spell must be original, for it brings no memories to him, and thus, no counter spell. He doesn't currently have the necessary focus or mental acuity to break it. Perhaps his unfathomable luck was at last leaving him. And what a lovely time it chose to do so. He continues probing nonetheless, desperate for something to come to him. Perhaps something he'd looked over.

To his utter surprise, one of the wards begin to buckle. He hears a sound like crumbling rock to his right, coming from the wall. If he hadn't been under this torture of silence, he would never have heard it. He hears the quiet scuffle of footsteps as one of his tormentors investigates the sound. Then another ward buckles, giving off more flaking rock and dust, barely perceptible. Then another. In quick succession, the remaining wards collapse, and the locked door to the room flies off it's hinges, smashing into Vainar and covering him. Something cracks as the heavy wooden object strikes his elbow. Pain slices through his lethargic state. He falls to the ground, hood falling off, crying out as flashes light the dim chamber and screams penetrate the broken silence even further.

Then, silence reigns once more. A hand grasps the edge of the door, and it is lifted off of Vainar. Peering down on him, Garrin tosses the door aside with surprising ease, holding a hand out. Vainar takes hold of the Archmage's hand, standing reluctantly, arm at an odd angle by his side.

Garrin inspects his arm, taking him by the shoulder and leading him out of the door frame. "Did you have to do that?" Vainar asks through gritted teeth.

"Actually," Garrin replies, "I did. The door was locked." Garrin smiles faintly.

"Wonderful," Vainar seethes.

"Come, come now. There are shaman, priests, druids, whichever you prefer. It won't be a problem," Garrin assures him.

They walk for a time, finally emerging from the sewers and into daylight. They travel through the streets, Vainar drawing many an intrepid eye. I must look like a fel-addled apprentice, he brooded, grooming his hair. The walk to Garrin's study seemed terribly short. The Archmage points to a wash tub. "Wash," he says, "there will be clothes outside the door when you are ready for them." With that, he exits the room. Lacking any actual instruction, Vainar fills the tub with conjured water and heats it with Evocation. He pulls his musty, profaned robes off, slipping into the water with a deep sigh of contentment.

He lies his head back, reflecting on the events prior. Somebody was opposed to Vainar's apprenticeship. Initially, he had suspected the Tothrezim to be somehow responsible, due to the first attempt against his life. Now, however, it seems things were rather more mundane, if slightly less dangerous. He had political opposition of the worst kind. He expected his torture was a different take on things. Instead of attempting to killing him, they had decided to attempt dissuading him from continuing his apprenticeship.

Fools. They did not have a Tothrezim on their heels. A Tothrezim that could rip an orc into four pieces in a matter of seconds and bend magic from the Nether to it's will with the ease of a master. Vainar, master socialite and maker of friends. Practically an anti-thesis, that. For one with superior luck, he often drew a rather short stick...

The sun is rising. Time to greet the new day.

"Fel," he comments dryly in Thalassian.

[Jason]

A Classical Education

"Enter, Apprentice. We are due for a bit of formal education," Archmage Garrin calls as Vainar knocks on his chamber door before opening it. He takes a seat in front of the fire place, opposite Garrin, clasping his hands over his lap. Bruises enumerate his face from the beating of a few days ago. He runs a hand through his hair, sighing as he does so.

"I'm ready," he says in an exhausted voice. He hadn't slept much recently.

"What in Antonidus's name are you sitting for, then? Up you go. I said formal education. That means a classical education. How did the High Elves teach humans?"

"They...I don't know, I wasn't there. They showed them through example, I suppose?" Vainar offers vaguely.

"However lax the answer, you are correct. They studied less in theory, moreso in practice. From what I have seen of your life so far...you may indeed wish for more study on higher magic's more practical use. Granted, I am not a particularly powerful Archmage. My genius lies in theory - but do not mistake me for a Conjurer. I may be old, but I still keep my magic under firm grip." Vainar grins as he speaks. He'd never seen Garrin so lively. "Now," the Archmage continues, "we shall work without staffs or wands. A raw flux of power. Come then, you begin." Vainar peers at him uncertainly.

"Sorry?" he inquires meekly.

"Begin! Cast a spell at me you useless apprentice!" Provocation. Lovely.

Vainar spares the outward incantation, forming the thoughts in his head and casting a low-power fireball. Garrin, however, opts for a charmingly accented outward invocation, causing the fire to dissipate around him and begin churning about his person, looking as if tatters of flames whipped around him in a tornado fashion. Garrin was actually showing off. He raises his hand, and the fire shoots up over him, changing direction and arcing toward Vainar. The flames fall upon him from above, as if to swallow him inside the inferno.

Vainar gathers himself and responds with a direct parry, sending a wave of ice up at the column of licking flames. The flames disappear. "Simple, but easy - I'll have no more of it. Think -harder-. There are other things you could have done with that fire, Vainar. The greatest mage combines his wit with his power."

Garrin fires a lance of ice at Vainar. Ridiculous; they were dueling in his very quarters. He whips his hands forward, mind scrambling for a clever divergence. A thought pops into his head, and he takes it for lack of a better alternative. The ice shatters into minuscule pieces, hitting Vainar like a mist. In that moment, Vainar sees an addition to such a spell he was sure he wouldn't have noticed before his textual studies. With a hesitant few syllables, the mist of ice begins collecting above his head as it flies past him, forming into a shard of arcane ice, purple in hue. The shard lights aflame, suddenly shooting forward at Vainar's behest.

Garrin, a look of mild surprise painting his face, raises his hand and...the shard simply disappears. No explosions, dissipation, fogging, or deflection. It simply winks out of existence with a small flash of blue. Vainar stares at what just happened, dumbstruck.

"That is extremely impressive, Vainar. There are few ways to counter such a spell, as it consists of all the fundamental variables of Evocation. One would need to exit the school to find an alternative method of defense, such as I had done. Few would be able to garner the presence of mind to do so. I simply teleported it to another location." he says smoothly.

"You teleported it?" Vainar asks incredulously.

"I did indeed. Many a powerful magi has learned to efficiently transport things other than themselves. Lady Jaina Proudmoore, for instance, is a very capable practitioner of teleportation in many forms. It's rather impressive."

"What...exactly can you do with such a spell?"

"Wondrous things. Only the elite master it - or get people killed. One could teleport an entire battalion including or excluding one's self. We've done this with military units, yes, and our very own city. It also works with food. Excellent delivery service, mind you. It is also how our mailboxes work, though those are enchanted with such a spell."

"Yes, but how is it done?"

Garrin smiles and motions for him, picking a book up from the table and opening it to a bookmarked page. "Read this paragraph, and we will begin with it's fundamentals."

And so the rest of that day and into the night, on to the next few days, they studied as such. Vainar made progress, slow as it may have been, and began showing marvelous improvement toward the end of the week.

*_____________________________________________________*

Sun shines down through the window at Vainar, yet his face remains cold in the wake of the smoldering fire. Golden motes of dust float through the air, in no hurry to move on. Vainar opens his eyes, not minding the microscopic intrusion at all. His small chamber seemed alive with morning. He could greet a new day, perhaps.

He climbs out from under the covers, moving over to the washing basin and splashing water over his face, fingers combing through his hair. With a heave of a sigh he opens the armoire by his bed and pulls a typical gray robe on, lastly lacing his boots on. Perhaps an exercise before today's exertions? he muses.

He concentrates on a book lying at the foot of his bed. With single minded intensity, he stares at it, then performs an arcane gesture followed by an incantation. The book disappears in a flash of blue light. Satisfied, Vainar teleports himself outsider Archmage Garrin's study and knocks on the door. Nobody answers. That's rather odd. He shrugs his shoulders and turns the knob, stepping into the room and beginning his apology for entering unnoticed.

The sight of Garrin lying on his side by the table, barely breathing and eyes wide, holds Vainar's tongue instantly. For a moment, all he can do is simply stare. Then, as if spurred on my a suddenly broken string, he dashes forward, laying a hand on Garrin's arm and looking into his eyes. Glazed. Chest barely heaving. Dying.

In a panic, he pushes Garrin onto his back and puts both of his hands to his chest, the spell coming unhindered to his lips. Arcane pushes into the Archmage, coursing through his body and seeking out the old mage's malady. Almost instantly, it enters his mind. Poison. He gets to his feet and sloppily constructs a spell to teleport to the nearest Horde resident. Some shaman must still be present. There must still be a shaman. present. He disappears, insides turning inside out as he's felt so much.

He reappears inside an inn, smoky and uncharacteristic of the place. In seconds he locates a tauren, a primal totem resting against his lap and posture rested in his commune. Vainar walks quickly up to the tauren, touches him, and teleports.

The both of them reappear with a flash back in Garrin's study, the tauren's eyes going wide in panic. He gets to his hooves with difficulty, raising the totem in defense of himself. "What is the meaning of this?" he asks of Vainar in a booming voice.

Vainar points at the Archmage. "He's been poisoned, he's dying. You have to heal him!" he says, eloquence not an applicable factor in the situation.

The tauren eyes Vainar. "He is human - but he is Kirin Tor. Otherwise, I would not agree. Step away, elf. Be thankful I am kind." The massive bovine approaches Garrin, letting his totem clank to the ground. He puts one massive hand on Garrin's chest, eyes closing. For a few seconds, nothing happens. Then, a faint aura of green envelopes the shaman's hand and enters Garrin's body, growing stronger by the second. The tauren draws his hand away and stands. "The poison is gone, but his age is much. He will need time to recover, if he manages to do so."

Vainar nods and steps forward to take the tauren back. The tauren holds a hand up. "Do not use your foul magic on me. I will walk," he growls, turning and exiting the door, though barely able to fit through the frame.

What was Vainar to do if Garrin died?

[Jason]

This is my Staff, This is my Wand...

"I don't know what you expect, sir," the physician explains mildly. "He's been poisoned. And this is no children's tonic; I congratulate you on your quick thinking, otherwise he would likely be dead. As it is, I cannot say how well he will recover, if at all."

"If at all?" Vainar asks redundantly.

"He's been comatose for hours past what is considered a healthy rest. If he doesn't wake in the next two days, the chances of him ever getting up are slim to none."

Vainar turns and runs a hand through his hair. He wasn't ready for this. His mentoring was nowhere near complete, and the chances of finding a different tutor...well, they were rather nonexistent.

He takes a glass of water from the table and walks toward the window, sipping the cool liquid as he looks out from the pane of glass to the surrealistically lovely scene below. Exotic animals lounge on the grass in the swath of grass surrounded by urban landscaping. Families sit on benches about the area, discussing whatever trivia possess their lives.

"I will be back tomorrow to assess his condition," the physician says brusquely, opening the door and stepping out without waiting for a response. Vainar turns, shaken from his reverie as the door closes. He takes another drink from the glass and sends it floating back to the table, turning on his heel and looks out the window again, eyes to the sky. Garrin openly interfered with his kidnapping, and they poisoned him. Who would deny him so avidly?

I know a few.

But none that would operate under such circumstances. Save for one...Could he? Certainly, he believed he could. Few could deny such a being, who had boasted of toppling civilizations and bringing thousands to their knees. An exaggeration, probably, but that took nothing away from the horror Vainar felt at the very thought of the creature.

But it couldn't penetrate Dalaran. It wasn't so powerful as to accomplish that, nor was it so flamboyant. The thing was cunning, and subtle. It would use puppets. Just as it had been doing to Vainar, so it could be doing with his assailants! But who is he masterminding? There is one person who controls all the rest; it was extremely unlikely the...Tothrezim...had come to all these men personally.

As to whom would have the power, resources, and motivation...

"Baldar," Vainar sneers. Of course. Baldar is weak, wanting...and jealous. It would be easy to buy him, and he has the necessary means to do what the Tothrezim wants. But how best to approach him? The simplest course of action would be to kill him. He had no doubt he could overpower the lesser conjurer. The rat had no chance against a fledgling Archmage.

Or...perhaps he could play this politically. Could he enter into the miasma of intrigue that was Dalaran Magocracy? The idea was less than appealing. He was no politician.

Perhaps he could confer with Garrin. But he hadn't the time. If...perhaps he could communicate with him...

Vainar turns, and rests his gaze on his unconscious tutor. It was a terrible idea.

~___________________________________________________~

"What? No. Absolutely, and inexorably, no. It's not worth the risk, I tell you!" the Divinist and human friend Jarrod exclaims.

"I can't do this alone. Garrin will know what to do, and this is the only way to reach him before something else happens. We are working against forces you haven't dreamt of encountering, Jarrod. We need this."

"What? I'm not involved! This is not my problem, damn it, and it shouldn't be!"

"You were involved the moment you spoke with me. You allowed me back into Dalaran's arms, and you will suffer for it. I didn't want this, and I know you didn't. Whether you like it or not, you need him just as much as I."

Jarrod turns on the spot and walks away a few steps, putting a hand to his forehead. They were in the courtyard Vainar had been tested in. He had pulled the Divination teacher right out of lessons with a troupe of students, who were currently watching the animated discussion with rapt interest, though Vainar doubted even the elves could hear them. He had seen to that.

Jarrod turns around, hands on hips, staring at Vainar with a stony expression. "Alright. Alright...when?"

"Tonight. We have little time as it is. If he doesn't wake up, the both of us are doomed."

"Fine. I will be there soon. Bring a Dream-state Potion and a bottle of rum from the orc establishment next the Silver Enclave."

"Rum?" Vainar inquires faintly.

"Just do as I say. I will be there soon, as I said."

Vainar nods, stepping closer grasping Jarrod's forearm. "Thank you, my friend. This means much to me." Jarrod manages a weak smile and nods, sauntering back to his students.

"Now, who can tell me the difference between real love, and magically fabricated love? Hmm, Amelia? I believe you have experience with this sort of thing. Don't think I didn't hear about that."

Vainar turns away and disappears with a muttered spell, appearing just outside the apothecary. He emerges a few minutes later with a green vial in hand and teleports to the street on the Silver Enclave. He enters the tavern next to it and orders a bottle of rum, paying the gruff orc bartender and leaving with the vile concoction in his other hand. He teleports back to Garrin's room to find Jarrod already there, moving a chair over by Garrin's bed. He looks up as the customary sharp crack signals Vainar's arrival.

"Good, you have them. Bring them to the table and set them down, then sit in this chair. I will begin to explain the procedure." Vainar complies, setting the vial and bottle of rum on the table and moving over to the chair. He sits with a heaving sigh, rubbing his forehead and pushing the hair from his face. After a moment, Jarrod takes a wand from his robes and holds it in both hands.

"Let me explain how this will work. I will induce an artificial sleep that will put you under for several hours. As you slumber, I will fabricate a dream with which you and Garrin will share. Garrin will be the host, which means he will determine everything about the dream. It will be whimsical, and a product of his subconscious. You will be the intruder, and will be lucid. It is your job to convince Garrin he is in a dream and bring him out of it. Frankly...I do not know how easy this will be. Some are very easily duped while dreaming, and take much persuasion to accept that that which surrounds them isn't real. Conversely, some are very self-aware, and will be no trouble at all. I can not say which type of dreamer Garrin is; only that you will find out once you meet him.

A word of warning; Garrin's subconscious may begin to reject you if you become too obvious. You must be careful, for things could turn...very bad. If you should be killed, I may not be able to wake you for quite a long time on your end, as the contents of the potion will keep you from waking upon death. That said, you should wake when I pour this rum down your throat. The alcohol will diffuse the effect of the potion, causing you to wake. Since you will not be able to communicate with me while you sleep, how much time should I give you?"

"I think...twenty minutes should be sufficient. How long until the potion wears off?"

"The particular strength of this potion dictates it will last for approximately five hours."

"But twenty minutes should be enough time, yes? Time is skewed in dreams, aren't they?"

"Yes, twenty minutes should be perfectly fine. Are you ready? We've delayed enough."

"I am. Give me the potion." Garrin walks to the table, plucking the glass container from the tabletop and handing it to Vainar. With a moment's hesitation, he unstoppers it and drains the vial. Within moments, the world fades.

~___________________________________________________~

Suddenly, as if thrust into a pool of water, various senses collide with Vainar's consciousness and he opens his eyes. He is standing in a building of human creation. Various portraits hang on the walls, depicting human nobles in shining armor with Lordaeron crests on them. Odd. He'd expected the dream to take place in Dalaran. With a sparing glance at the room around him, he exits it into an open street with a throng of people. Humans, mostly, with a few high elves scattered among the crowd. He draws more than a few glances as he emerges, all their gazes going to his eyes. Damn, his eyes were green. He turns, focusing all of his willpower on his eyes, remembering them as they were before he had turned to fel magic in his youth. He turns back around. Those that had been staring at him with oddly quirked eyebrows turn back to their business.

Rubbing his hands together, he descends the wooden steps and makes his way down the street, pausing near a puddle of water to inspect himself. He was wearing the red robes he'd been wearing while awake, and all was just as he remembered save his eyes, which were now blue. Also missing were his scars, oddly enough.

"Curious..." he mutters, though he was far from complaining.

Now to find where Garrin is. He didn't know enough about the man to know where he would be in this place, but he guessed it would be something intellectual. By all standards, it seemed a normal dream. No flying, tentacled monsters...

"If you keep staring at your reflection so, you won't help the rumors that all elves are in love with themselves." A clear, feminine voice says behind him. He turns to find a pretty high elf eying him with a raised eyebrow and half-smile.

"If all were as enchanting as you, I would say the rumor should be true." Vainar says, running on default. What exactly do you say to someone who doesn't exist? "Hi! You aren't real, but let's be friends anyway, okee?" If he were to say that, he might as well paint a giant red X on his back.

"Enchanting, am I? What a loose tongue you have, telling a complete stranger that." Her head cocks to the side, a loose blond curl falling over her eyes attractively.

She isn't real...stop thinking that. She can't be attractive if she doesn't exist, he thinks to himself.

"Forgive me, but I was rather disarmed. I am Vainar, a pleasure to meet you."

The high elf smiles. Fel, did Garrin create this woman? He has good taste...

"I'm Adanne. The pleasure is mine. I've never seen you before. What brings you here?" she inquires innocently, hands clasping and head tilting to the side once more in a blatant effort to appear even more attractive. The effect wasn't lost on Vainar.

"Actually, I'm looking for a friend...Garrin. Would you know where he lives?" The elf laughs at his question.

"Who wouldn't know where he lives? In that castle over there, of course. He is our lord, after all."

Vainar looks at her in bewilderment. "Your lord? Garrin?"

"Of course. He has been for some time. I don't know if he will allow an audience, as his daughter has fallen ill, but if you are a friend as you say it shouldn't be a problem."

"Excellent. Thank you, and I really must go."

"Perhaps you would like someone to accompany you there? The roads are ever winding. You might lose your way..." Vainar blinks. This is ridiculous. She isn't even real. But my, she is convincing...

"It would be an honor," Vainar replies suavely, offering his elbow. She smiles wider and loops her arm around his, leading him down the street.

"So, Vainar," she begins as they make their way down the lane, "you are a mage, yes?"

"I am. Am I so obvious?"

"It's in the way you carry yourself. Very dignified. Very powerful." This forces a smile out of Vainar.

"Flatterer. All the same, thank you. Do you have family in the city?"

"I do. My mother and father, two brothers, and an aunt. My brother, Turylin, is also a mage. He is currently in Dalaran. We go to visit him often."

"It isn't too much trouble to travel all the way to Dalaran?"

"Trouble? It is only a few days south, and he is worth the ride."

"South?"

"Of course. Did you not say you were a mage? Then you have been to Dalaran, surely?"

Vainar blinks rapidly. "Yes, of course. Forgive me, my mind wandered for a moment." South? This dream must take place in the past...Dalaran has not yet been attacked. Marvelous. And Adanne's family...so real. Garrin's mind really is a marvel.

The two remain silent in each other's company until they reach the castle; a grand assortment, with spires and battlements and guards in shining plate.

"I believe this is it," Adanne says quietly. Vainar looks from her to the castle, and back into her faint blue-glowing eyes.

"Perhaps...you could show me inside. I do not come here often." The high elf smiles and puts her free left hand on Vainar's arm and begins leading him forward.

She isn't real...she isn't real...

They enter into the foyer and from there to the great hall, where a seneschal sits at a desk atop four large steps. Vainar and Adanne approach the desk, and Adanne puts a small hand to Vainar's back, urging him forward. He steps forward, clearing his throat. The seneschal looks up from his writing and removes the spectacles from his face. "Do you have an appointment with the Count?" he asks with the voice of a shrewd man.

"I don't, but he is expecting me. We're old friends." Vainar offers. He should have thought about what to say on the way to the castle.

"I'm sorry, but you will have to schedule an appointment. The Count will not be seeing anyone for some time, as his daughter Delilah has taken ill. You may establish an appointment for next month if you wish." Vainar frowns at the seneschal's words.

"Next month? I can't wait that long. This is of dire importance."

The seneschal sneers. "Yes, dire importance. As I said, m'lo-"

"I can vouch for this man." Both of the men turn to look at Adanne, who had just spoken. The seneschal eyes her warily.

"Adanne. It is a...pleasure. You know this man?"

"I do. He has my authority to speak with the Count. I believe it necessary." Vainar looks at Adanne with genuine surprise. The seneschal sighs and waves his hand at a door to the far left.

"Go on, then."

Adanne takes Vainar's hand and leads him to the door, stepping through and closing it behind them. She turns on her heel, Vainar following closely. He manages silence for a few moments before his curiosity gets the better of him.

"By your authority?" he asks as he follows. Adanne stops and turns, a small smile on her face.

"I am the Count's personal adviser, as an ambassador for the Kirin Tor."

Vainar executes a series of surprised blinks. "You failed to mention this earlier. Why the help?"

Adanne winks in response, flicking a hand toward the door at the far end of the hall and turning. Vainar continues following in silence. She removes a key from her robes and unlocks the door, stepping inside. The chamber they enter is lush, with satin lounges and cherry wood chairs. Sitting at a grand desk scattered with official documents sits a man, brown hair pulled into a short ponytail, a tired face looking the two of them over as they enter. The face, young though it was, is unmistakable. Garrin.

The young Garrin opens his mouth to speak. "Ah, Adanne. I was hoping you would be back today. Who is this man?"

Adanne bows formally, then straightens. "This man says he knows you. I let him past your moody seneschal. He's a mage."

"Indeed? What's your name, sir? I'm afraid I don't remember you."

"Vainar," he replies, “and I doubt you would remember me. Actually, that's why I'm here, sir. There is something I must tell you, and it is for your ears only." Going off a whim, he adds; "I think it may have to do with your daughter's illness, sir."

This takes hold of Garrin's attention. "You do? By the Light, this is good to hear. Anything you say is for Adanne's ears as well. Come, come, sit. Adanne, seal the door?" Adanne nods and waves her hand at the door, the lock clicking back into place. Vainar moves over to the single chair sits, heart racing.

She can't hear this. She's part of his subconscious. But I have to try... Garrin continues looking at him. He was supposed to say something.

"Uhm," Vainar begins eloquently, "As I said, my name is Vainar Vinin'drel, and I'm here - I'm sorry, let me procure a few drinks." He waves his hand over the table, muttering an incantation. A bottle of brandy and three glasses appear, the brandy pouring itself. The glasses rise from the table, flying to their respective owners. The spell was remarkably easy for Vainar. "As I was saying, I'm here with a bit of knowledge about your daughter. You see, sir...your daughter is ill because she has been poisoned." He pauses to let the sentence sink in. "She is poisoned...because you are poisoned."

Garrin stares at Vainar dumbly. After a moment, he begins moving the parchment on his desk into stacks, hands shaking visibly. "And you know this," he begins in a weak voice, "to be true? How?"

"That is why I am here. My job is to investigate - no, never mind. There isn't enough time for this. You have been poisoned, but not here. To be truthful, your daughter has not been poisoned. Your daughter...does not exist." As soon as he says this, several men appear in the shadows at the far wall of the room. They didn't enter, they just materialized.

This must be what Jarrod was talking about when he warned me about Garrin's subconscious. All of the men heft daggers, and appear dressed exactly the same, with brown leather and obscuring hoods. In fact, their even identical in built. Exact copies. His subconscious must not be very creative.

"Now listen to me Garrin. This may not make sense, but you have to believe me. You are in a dream. Nothing around you is real. You are an Archmage of the Kirin Tor, and I am your apprentice. You are not a Count. Dalaran has been moved to Northrend after the Legion assaulted. Remember, damn it!" All the while he'd been speaking, the hooded men had been moving forward. With a snarl, Vainar gets up from his chair, the force knocking it back. He thrusts his hand forward and sends a fireball at one of the men. The fireball, much larger and more powerful than Vainar had anticipated, slams into the hooded figure, exploding and scattering all but one, who rolls out of the way. An arm goes around Vainar's neck, squeezing tightly and cutting the air off from his lungs. Specks of light enter his vision as he fights for release, but the arm is as iron, unmoving.

Suddenly, he is released, and he falls gasping to the floor. A smack of the most unhealthy origin is heard, and he turns to see another hooded man hit the floor. Adanne's hands are lit by arcane magic, golden curls lifting into the air with her power. She had helped him?

"Come on!" she yells, flicking his hand at the door. It crashes open. The girl had talent. Vainar grabs Garrin and pulls him from his desk, and the three of them run out of the room and down the grand hall. A legion of hooded men stand in front of the archway out of the castle, unmoving and exact copies of each other.

[left][/left]

Adanne yelps and points at the adjacent door, running forward at a mad pace. As if linked by a hivemind, all of the figures begin moving at once, sprinting toward Vainar and sending thrills of terror clawing at his heart. He breaks after Adanne, Garrin close behind and breathing heavily. They tumble through the door, Adanne flicking her hand as Garrin piles in. The door slams shut and clicks just as several bodies collide with the wooden barrier.

"This way, I know another way out," she says airily, beginning to climb a spiraling staircase. Light pours in from above. A tower.

"Why are you helping me?" Vainar calls after her, mounting the steps. It wasn't the first time he had asked the question. "Aren't you...you aren't real!"

She looks at him as she continues ascending the steps. "Aren't I?" she says cryptically. "They will break through that door soon. I will make a portal when we get to the top." They climb in silence for half a minute before cresting the top of the stairs and into the sunlight. It was a glorious day, though thunderheads were on the horizon.

"What the hell is going on? Are they trying to kill me?" Garrin blusters with wide eyes.

"No. They are trying to kill him." Adanne says, eying Vainar with an unreadable expression. She walks up to him, putting a hand on his chest. "Poor, poor Vainar," she purrs, "Who risks so much to help a friend. All you've done is sacrifice all your life, and they repay you so cruelly. When things finally begin to improve, they go after Garrin, and in a desperate act of selflessness, you are trying to save him from an eternal

slumber. Poor, sweet Vainar." She cups his cheek and stands on her toes, kissing him on the lips. Vainar reels, completely taken by surprise. Then a sharp, violent pain bites into his chest, and he pulls away, crying out. The hilt of a dagger protrudes from his chest, the blade piercing his heart. He grabs the hilt, not pulling it out, but seemingly checking if it's real.

He falls to his knees, left hand stopping him from crumpling forward. Adanne kneels down, lifting his chin with two fingers. He looks up into her face; her eyes are red, and fangs are visible as her lips curl into a sadistic smile. "So easily fooled. Die, Vainar. It is what they all want." Her smile unwavering, she yanks the dagger from his breast and thrusts it back into him. She then pulls it out and stabs him again, and again, until he falls to the ground, his twitching coming to a halt. The world blurs and disappears, and he reappears in a realm of pure white, standing on nothing, completely naked. He was dead. And he was...where?

He had failed.


((These next few posts are anything if not audacious, ambitious, and a bit expansive. This post and the one following is in itself a little over 6,000 words. I would gladly rewrite them if they seem a bit...far. Inspirations? The Matrix, Inception, Harry Potter (Yep), and Through a Nightmare, Darkly (Oblivion quest, though this pertains mostly to the upcoming post). Adieu.))

[Jason]

This is for Firing, and this is for Fun

With a jolt, Garrin wakes, bolting up from the bed with widened eyes. Jarrod, who had been reading, involuntarily throws his book into the air and jumps to his feet. As if waking from the dead (an apt description, by all accounts), the old Archmage climbs out of bed and stands warily, looking upon the sleeping Vainar with a look of concern. "Why isn't he waking?" he grumbles. Jarrod looks to the sleeping Vainar, fear dawning in his eyes.

"He...he's under a potion. Here..." Jarrod takes the bottle of rum, pulling the cork out and bringing the bottle to Vainar's lips. He massages the elf's throat, tipping the liquid into his mouth. Vainar coughs, forcibly swallowing the rum. Jarrod waits a few seconds, eyes widening in panic. "I-...he should be waking up! The potion's effects have been diffused. What happened in the dream?"

"He was killed. That shouldn't be...Oh, no..." Just as Jarrod begins to form a response, several bolts of arcane smash through the windows. One slams into Jarrod, lifting him off his feet. He hits the wall with a sickly sound of crunching bones. Garrin conjures a shield of Arcane, lifting Vainar with magic and shielding him as well. He latches onto Vainar's robes, and the both of them disappear in a flash of light.

~___________________________________________________~

Vainar stares at the blanket of white all around. Where was he? He sticks his hand out, flexing it, then looks down and runs the hand over his chest. No wound. All of his scars from the waking world were back, though, and he guessed his eyes were green once more. He was still asleep. Or dead? Not dead. Jarrod would have told him if such a thing meant his actual death. Then he was still dreaming. This meant...

Closing his eyes, Vainar envisions himself in splendid, crimson silk robes embroidered with gold. He opens his eyes, surprised to find the very robes clothing his frame. Holding his hand out, he recalls his old staff. The very staff, blue-steel metal shaft, large center orange and pink gem surrounded by three rotating smaller gems, appears in front of him. He grabs it and rests his weight on it. Grinning, he thrusts his hand forward. Pure arcane breaks from his palm, arcing through the air in a brilliant flash and dissipating in the distance. Amazing. he was in some sort of limbo of thought. Then Jarrod's words crash in on him. "If you should be killed, I may not be able to wake you for quite a long time on your end, as the contents of the potion will keep you from waking upon death."

How long would he be here? And what would he do? Or, perhaps a better question would be...what could he do?

Vainar shuts his eyes again, imagining with all of his willpower the red dragon whelpling he kept as a pet a year ago. Hearing a metallic screech, he opens his eyes to find the very whelpling curled at his feet. With fierce delight, Vainar kneels down and runs his hand down the tiny dragon's spine. It arches its back and gets to its paws, prancing forward a few steps and jumping into the air, taking flight. It swoops through the air, flapping lazily as he watches.

With new confidence, Vainar looks in front of him and focuses. The area around him erupts in swaths of grass and trees. Above him, azure inks into existence and forms a sky. Birdsong fills the air, and warmness seeps into his limbs as the sun falls on his back. Eversong Woods in all of its brilliance. Just as he remembered it. A sad smile plays on his lips. If only he remembered what his family looked like, he could bring them back to life here. On a whim, he thrusts his hands forward at a tree. It explodes, burning timber flying into the air and dirt spraying everywhere. Magic, without a limit. He could use this time to train. He could use it to prepare, until he rejoined the real world...

Perhaps this wasn't such a bad thing.

~___________________________________________________~

Garrin struggles to keep his footing as he and Vainar appear within his summer home in Southshore. Books and scrolls litter most of the table space, and a small bed lies off in one corner next to a fireplace. A hallway leads to a guest room, restroom, and Kitchen and Dining room area. The stone floor erupts in a flurry of dust from the teleportation spell. He had forsaken vacation for years now...

He moves Vainar above the bed and allows the magic to cease. The elf drops onto the cushions unceremoniously, still unconscious. Garrin strides down the hallway and into the washroom, filling the mounted basin with cool water, which he splashes over his face. He had been in that fevered dream for some time. His perfect life, save his ill daughter. That must have been a reflection of his own state. Still, it even had...her.

Adanne. Lovely Adanne, just as he'd remembered her. She had been his apprentice, his personal trainee long ago. She wanted to become an Archmage, and he'd agreed to train her. He suspected it was the love he already felt for her. She was the daughter he was never able to have. That she had been in his dream was merely an afterthought. The hooded men in all their oddity had startled him enough to question if perhaps Vainar was right about it all being a dream. When Adanne's eyes grew red and her intentions demented, he was without a doubt. His Adanne would never do such a thing. And so, he had thrown himself off the tower, and woke just before he hit the ground.

Vainar had been successful, but at a cost. Now the boy would be trapped in limbo, and there was no telling exactly how long he would be there. On Garrin's end, it would be when Vainar woke within the next hour or so. In Vainar's mind, however...he could be trapped for years of his perception. Garrin wipes his face with a linen towel and goes to the window, peering out and closing the curtain. He exits the room and goes around the house, closing each of the curtains. It was entirely his fault, of couIf he'd only listened to the boy sooner...But it was done. He would wake soon, for better or worse, and they could figure out what they were to do. He closes the final curtain and steps out of the hall just as several hooded, black robed figures appear in the sitting room with a flash of light and miniature explosion.

The tallest sneers at Garrin and lifts his hand. A ball of green fire appears above the man's palm with intent to kill.

~___________________________________________________~

Many, many years later in the mind of Vainar...

"You are weak. There is nothing you can do to stop me, child. Now...you will die." The Tothrezim sneers at Vainar as it raises its fist, purple energy suffusing it's balled hand. A wave of shadow bursts forth. Vainar brings his arms over his head in an X, then slices them down, forcing the shadow to part around him. He shoves his hand forward, pure Arcane exiting his palm like a lance and growing to a huge size. It slams into the Tothrezim, sending the thing into the air. It flaps its gargantuan wings twice, righting itself and touching down with a snarl.

"Foolish elf! You cannot hope to match my power!" As it spits the last word out, it throws it's hands up, crying out to the heavens. Several meteorites of green fire smash into the barren, rocky landscape around them, colossal, emerald constructs climbing their way out of the craters. They roar with the sound of rock scraping against rock, the closest charging in a berserker rage. This was rather new.

Mustering his courage, Vainar slams his fist into the ground. A great, white pillar bursts from the ground underneath the charging infernal, the Arcane fire tinged only faintly with purple in its power. The light obscures the demon completely, winking out moments later. Only broken, red-glowing rock falls to the ground where the infernal had been.

The other infernal roars and picks up a boulder, hurling it at Vainar with all its might. Its might is rather impressive.

Relying on brute power, Vainar raises his hands, using all of his will in forcing the boulder to stop midflight. It complies, shuddering to a halt. He grins savagely and begins moving his hands in complex patterns. The craggy boulder starts to spin, slowly at first, and then with more speed. He then steps forward, yelling in his exertion as he sends the boulder flying back at the infernal.

It crashes into the demon, separating it into several chunks of rock, the fel fire licking at its earthen body dissipating altogether. The Tothrezim cries out in a rage, rising on its great wings and brandishing two crudely cut swords. As it comes down on Vainar, it roars again with anger to find he is no longer there. Thirty yards away, Vainar begins channeling a spell. The third infernal monster, closer to Vainar now, screeches and charges, the earth shaking under its advance. As it bares down on him, not ten yards away, he finishes the spell, forcing his hands downward. A wave of immensely strong Arcane crashes down on the demon, crushing it utterly and killing it.

The mage turns and eyes the Tothrezim with a smirk. "I've killed you many, many times now. Perhaps I will need to seek more challenging opposition in the future." He conjures a large lance of ice and hurls it at the Tothrezim magically. It impales itself in the Tothrezim's chest, exiting its back and soaring even further. The demon seems to not notice, calling down a volley of shadow. Unholy bolts dash upon the ground in waves, and Vainar only barely manages to shield himself in time. He had died more than once because of that particular spell; he was prepared for it. Each time he would die, he would return to the Land of White, and he would start again. He had died...many times.

The Tothrezim rises, taking flight. It flies high into the air, steeping into a dive straight at the elven mage. There were several options available. He could teleport out of the way just as the Tothrezim reaches him, loose a spell on the creature while it falls toward him, or he could control its flight and cause it to smash into the small hill not far from him. The third option presented itself as the most comical.

Raising his hands, Vainar begins to chant an incantation, hands suffusing them self in blue light. The Tothrezim begins to struggle in the air as it's wings pin to its back and it starts to veer off course. It lets loose a final, throaty roar as it smashes headfirst into the bare, jagged, rocky hill, bouncing off and soaring another twenty or so feet before falling back to the ground. Vainar has no doubt he is quite dead.

With an exasperated sigh, he allows the landscape to leak away to be replaced by his familiar Land of White. He needed a break. Next, he supposed he would practice killing humanoids. Orcs, perhaps. As he remembered, they weren't warring with the orcs anymore outside of The Dream, but it couldn't hurt. As he begins to imagine the landscape the fantasy battle would take place on, he stops. Perhaps something a little more laid back...I deserve it after my seventeenth victorious battle with the Tothrezim...

The world fills in, to be replaced with Fray Island. Anaiya, an orc, a troll shaman, and Lok'magrosh all sit around a bonfire, talking raucously with several others. Lok'magrosh's eerie, cerulean-glowing eyes fall on Vainar and he beckons the mage over, sitting with his usual dignity. He smiles and steps through the sand to sit between Anaiya and he. Another Sin'dorei across the fire waves at him, her scarlet ponytail playing in the wind. He waves back and turns to Anaiya, moving his hand over to hers. She grasps it and smiles back at him, nodding at Lok'magrosh. He turns and looks at his old friend, eyebrow quirking quizzically.

"Vainar, we've all decided it was time you were promoted. You will be second in command, answering only to me. As you've suggested, we have removed Sozun from the clan, and Squk is now a full-time Peon. I should have listened to your wisdom much sooner."

"Don't worry, old friend, it isn't your fault. Sozun was probably toying with your mind in some way." Vainar replies. Lok'magrosh nods in a sage-like manner.

"Your efforts are very appreciated. The clan thanks you, and we prosper. Soon we will be able to rid the entire Horde lands of corruption. Then, we may move on to other lands. Then we may focus on our old ways...The Lifeblood ways."

"I am glad to hear it. For now, though, let's rest. I'm tired..." Vainar lies back in the sand, closing his eyes. The fire warms him, and the cool wind brushes at the sweat on his face. A smile plays on his lips as he drifts off into a half sleep, hand still clutching Anaiya's.

"It's too bad you had to be involved, Garrin. You used to be such an inspiration to me...but he has promised much more than you could. Time to die."

Vainar bolts up. He's on a bed, and several figures clothed in black robes stand with their backs turned to him, talking to someone out of view. Garrin. They were going to kill him. Without thinking, he leaps from the bed and throws his hands forward, circling them over his head. All three figures are picked up off the ground, twirling through the air and smashing into the walls.

One of them gets to his hands and knees. Vainar fires several lances of ice at him, skewering the man in the chest as he begins to stand. He claps his hands together, and the two remaining men slam into each other. Muttering an incantation, Vainar causes them to burst into flames. They rise, flailing through the air and knocking furniture over. Before long, the building catches fire.

Vainar turns to Garrin, who had been watching the procession with calm admiration. He approaches his old mentor and puts a hand on his shoulder. The both of them disappear, leaving the burning building behind.



((This would be where the story gets to the interesting bit I mentioned at the end of the last post. Again, any problems rewriting it for a tone-down would be no problem at all. My only reason for not bringing it to a GM is this is the only time I will have internet for a while. I can get to any problems after Christmas.))

[Jason]

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.

[Jason]

Nor is He Early

During the events of the last post...

"They will be yours. The Archmage has agreed on the plan," a hooded figure says quietly, hesitantly.

"Excellent. Cheer up, man, you get your life back. With bonuses, as well. You should count yourself lucky our lord is so merciful and wise."

"Yes. Yes, I know. I did not mean to sound ungrateful."

"You want what he has to offer you, I know. I could see it in your eyes - that lust for power."

The hooded man shifts uncomfortably. "It's...what we all want, isn't it? We're only human. I'm just doing what's rational. There's no other way."

"No, there is not. Go to, and make sure this is done right. If they slip through your fingers, you will end up like Baldar. You wouldn't want that." The hooded man shakes his head, remembering the sight of the former Conjurer's corpse hanging naked by his feet, stomach sliced open and entrails missing. He hadn't slept the last few days because of it.

"Baldar was expendable, and a liability. And he wanted more. That's your little lesson. Now get out of my sight."

Without a word, the hooded man bows and exits the room. The man who had been speaking was, of course, the very same contacted by the Tothrezim four days prior. Already he had his prey in sight. He expected much more effort to be required. Truthfully, he hadn't the slightest idea why the Tothrezim was so very interested in the Archmage and Apprentice. The Apprentice particularly interested him, it seemed. He had no inclination of asking why this was.

"Dalrin," a man announces as he opens the door. Dalrin, as the newcomer knew the man's name to be, smiles pleasantly and bows.

"Markus, how lovely of you to join me. I assume you and your associates are ready?"

"Yessir. We've all exits blocked, and no mistake either. They ain't getting away."

Dalrin rubs his hands together. "This is good to hear. They are expected approximately forty-six hours from now. I will not be joining you. Bring them here when you have them, and be sure to bind them with the chains we supplied you with."

"Yes sir."

"Are the runes in place?" The man nods in response. "Good. Go now. And remember, if you fail, it will be your life."

"Yessir," the man mutters quickly, turning and closing the door behind him.

Dalrin sighs and clasps his hands behind his back, strolling to his desk and sitting delicately in the rough wooden chair. Soon he would have power insurmountable, and he might then finally be able to bring his dear Eleanor back...dead or alive.

~___________________________________________________~

Approximately forty-six hours later...

In Booty Bay, the rain comes down in droves. Vainar and Garrin stand under an overhanging walkway, sheltered from the downpour. In all appearance, Vainar was human, and Garrin appeared in fine silks. The both of them held new staffs, and Garrin even thought to add a monocle to his ensemble, which Vainar had occupied himself with for the past day in the means of jibes and jokes.

Now, however, they were both in a somber, even taciturn mood. Soaking wet, cold, and already very tired of the local populace. Booty Bay...perhaps the worst city on Azeroth. Garrin touches a hand to Vainar's arm and turns, a signal to follow. He follows Garrin inside a vacant storage area and sighs, shivering slightly as he does so.

"Is it time?" he says lowly, shutting the door on the wind and precipitation. He shakes his head, spraying droplets of water out of his freshly cut hair. He'd not shaven for days, and sported an ever thickening beard. If any of his old friends could see him now, they might cry out at his gruff appearance.

"Yes, it's time. Take my arm," replies Garrin, physical appearance rather unchanged in comparison. Vainar complies, putting his hand on the old man's forearm. After several moments of preparation, he mutters an incantation and all around them disappears, immediately to be replaced by a foul smell, an ever colder sensation, and a dank, dark chamber lit by two torches on either side of the room. The only sound for the first second is the dripping of water. Immediately after Vainar fully regains his senses, someone bellows loudly, the sound echoing. Several other cries rise with the first, and figures rush from behind barrels and stone pillars, hefting weapons. Flashes of light brighten the room as several magi let fly spells.

Vainar acts on instinct, raising his staff and procuring a shield around himself and Garrin. Garrin is slightly slower to react, and raises his staff as the shield solidifies around him. From the white crystal on the head of his staff emanates a blinding light, robbing all of sight save Vainar. The spells hit the shields, and he feels their power wane. Strong magic. He lets the barriers fall and thrusts his staff forward, a strong wave of Arcane pushing at least five men away. They roll across the floor, pawing at their eyes in pain. The magi retreat behind the cover of barrels. Cries of pain replace the bellows, and Vainar's mind begins overclocking.

A dozen or more attackers. Three magi, the rest non-magical but large. He throws up another shield of Arcane and grips his staff.

"Activate the runes! Activate the fucking runes!"

Vainar's eyes widen and his mouth gapes open. Garrin swears under his breath next to him. Almost immediately, the shield flickers and dies, and Vainar's human illusion is quite gone. In a panic, he attempts to create another barrier. He feels nothing. The both of them back up against the wall. Both of the exits were blocked by men just coming through them, eyes undamaged.

The blinded begin staggering to their feet, now functional eyes locking onto the two magi with hatred.

"You should have given me a sword!" Vainar yells. The men charge.

With a roar, Vainar brandishes his staff like a club and swings it at the closes, smashing him the face. He raises the metal pole above his head, bringing it down on another with a lethal crack. Then the rest are on him, swinging their blackjacks and maces fiercely. A blow lands Vainar on the head, and all disappears.

~___________________________________________________~

Vainar comes to his senses, eyes opening slowly. His feet drag along the ground as two men pull him. Garrin hangs over a man's shoulder in front of him, head bloody from a hard strike with a mace. He realizes his hands are chained behind him, Garrin as well. A few ribs felt cracked, and a gash on his forehead caused blood to pour down his face in a current of sanguine. He coughs, blood, mixing with saliva as it exits his mouth. A door opens somewhere ahead, and the both of them are dragged into a stone room with a desk, two cages, and a table.

Wordlessly, the men drop them on the floor and exit, closing the door behind them. Vainar groans, breathing laboriously. He flips over, inhaling roughly as his entire midsection thrills with agony.

"I do apologize," a voice says from the corner, "but you should live. Long enough, at any rate." The man enters his sight, flowing purple robes and midnight cape adorning the slim but tall figure of a middle-aged, handsome human. "You have been quite elusive these past few days, Master Vinin'drel. Our Lord has grown rather impatient with you. But before he arrives, I must ask...why is he so interested in you?"

Vainar doesn't respond. He barely even listens, focusing on subduing the pain. Dalrin clucks his tongue, about to say something when the door opens and a hooded, robed man steps through. He eyes the both of them as he passes, his beard and bearing somehow familiar to Vainar. The unknown man approaches Dalrin and speaks in hushed tones.

"Jarrod, why so secretive? Come, look upon your former friends. Let them see how they fall!" Dalrin says in response, voice booming within the small room and echoing off the stony walls. Vainar stiffens, his breath drawing inward and producing a gravelly, tortured sound. Jarrod had betrayed them? Of all men, he was the one to deliver Vainar to his death?

The thought makes his blood run thick and hot. He sits up slowly, turning and getting to his knee.

"Well, look at that. He isn't half as dead as he looks, is he?" Dalrin announces joyously. Vainar's ears pound, mind filling with blind hatred. He had lived through ridiculous odds, survived impossible obstacles, and risen to far, only to face death at one he called a friend? Was life such a cold whore as to leave him like this? He bares his teeth and plants his foot firmly on the ground, rising to his feet.

"Vainar," Jarrod mutters weakly, "I'm sorry. I had no choice. He was going to...you don't know what he's like, the demon."

Vainar knew all to well.

He extends his senses to the manacles on his wrists. The chains stopped his use of the Arcane, but nothing was perfect. It had a weakness, somewhere. Through sheer force of will he casts his mind on his restrains, searching for a weakness in the spell. Anything to grasp onto.

"I believe he wishes to speak. Come now, Vainar, can't you say anything? Oh, I'm afraid he's mute..."

Vainar ignores him. Ignores everything, save his bindings. They fill his mind, and he feels the spell, sorting through it like an artisan.

"I think I've had enough of this. Jarrod, kindly strike him again?" Dalrin asks redundantly, turning his gaze on the Diviner. He steps forward slightly, then stops, hesitant to do any more. "Well, what are you waiting for? Get on with it. Our Lord will be here shortly."

Heart beating in a frenzied panic, Vainar begins sorting through the spell with a mad haste. At last, under his scrutiny, he finds a loose strand of power. With excitement, he pounces upon it and attacks. Dread fills him as he realizes he can't affect it without magic. He was doomed...

Jarrod moves around Vainar as he falls back to his knees, chin resting on his collarbone, already defeated. He senses the Diviner stop behind him. He readies himself for the impending hit.

Then Vainar's shackles break as the spell unravels. Power rushes through him as if embracing him after being apart too long. It brings strength back to his limbs and steadies his mind. Dalrin's eyes widen with surprise, then anger.

"You treacherous, dead bastard. You fool! Your life will end for this." He thrusts his hand forward, and Jarrod erupts in a torrent of fire, screaming and falling to the ground. Vainar rolls away, ribs protesting. He stares wide-eyed at his old friend as he burns, beyond saving. His hatred shifts to Dalrin, anger returning and rising to the surface, amplified by the power running through him.

"Come, boy. Match my demonic magic, if you dare to try." His hands erupt in green flames, roiling like coils of snakes. Vainar forces himself to his feet, face set into a hard grimace, emerald eyes flaring slightly brighter. He reaches for the Arcane and lets it caress his body. The power was exulting and more vibrant than he'd felt it in his entire life. Languidly, he lifts a hand and fires a raw blast of Arcane. Dalrin raises his hands, a green-tinged transparent shield flaring up around him. His eyes fly wide as Vainar's spell obliterates his shield and sends him flying back. He hits the wall, falling to the ground. He stands hurriedly, the impact having done little damage.

Reigniting his hands with green flames, he brings them forward and slams his palms together, firing a ray of green light. Vainar pushes his own hands forward, a beam of purple energy meeting the fel-enhanced arcane just before it reaches him. He holds the spell, feeling Dalrin's power, then grins maliciously. Weak. He pushes forth with all his might, overpowering his opponents spell. The beam of Arcane drives the emerald ray of light back into Dalrin and combusts. The explosion causes the man to fly back once more and strike the wall, this time with terrible force. He bounces off the stonework like a ragdoll and hits the floor, skin shriveling and blackening.

The power now fading, Vainar staggers to where Garrin lies, feeling for a pulse. Unconscious. He crushes the spell in Garrin's manacles, causing them to shatter. Then places a hand on the archmage's back and mutters an incantation just as a blur appears in the corner of the room. They disappear before the four armed, winged demon fully materializes.

((Yes, the last picture was a blurred out dreadlord! Why? There are no Tothrezim models. And the one I made looks silly. So...it will suffice!))

[Jason]

He Arrives Precisely When He Means To

A flash of blue light heralds the appearance of a broken and battered Vainar with Garrin lying just as beaten in the courtyard of the Violet Hold. Several Senior Magi and Kirin Tor guards turn to look in surprise at the arrival, eyes widening at the blood and their disheveled appearances.

"Teleport them to the hospital wing immediately!" a voice cries.

"Who is that?" yells another.

"That there's a Senior Archmage! That's Garrin, that is!" an astute bystander exclaims passionately. Three men approach hurriedly.

"Can either of you sidelong teleport?" one says, looking uneasy. They both shake their heads quickly. Vainar coughs a wad of blood onto the stones. Internal bleeding. Precisely what he needed at this particular moment. Summoning his last vestiges of energy he forces himself to a knee and puts his left hand up, laying his right on Garrin's back.

"All of you, take my hand. I can...I can get us there," he croaks. The trio look at him incredulously. Presumably, Vainar wasn't appearing in his best health. He supposed he wouldn't, given the circumstances. Regardless, each take hold of Vainar's arm. As soon as they do, he says the incantation aloud and focuses his will on the hospital wing of the Violet Citadel. No place could be so safe.

It takes only a moment for them to appear just where Vainar planned. He had never teleported more than one person at a time, and the resulting drain of energy forced him to slump over, barely conscious. He was dimly aware of voices speaking around him, but nothing entered his mind as a comprehensive sound. The men all take hold of Vainar and Garrin, lifting them into beds. Various medics crowd around, shouting orders to one another, or so it seemed. Perhaps they were yelling at him. The thought struck Vainar as funny, and he smiled faintly as a blanket of warm blackness washed over him and snuffed his thought like a candle.

~___________________________________________________~

"How disappointed I am...In all of you. You know I need you. You know I can not reach him alone. I do not need lies to command you. You know this as well." The voice speaking was a whispering, pained voice, like a snake, had snakes the inclination to speak. It was, to further allude to snakes, filled with malice and venom, with a certain dark charisma. All ten men in the room bowed their heads, fearing to look at their master, for he was a gruesome sight to behold. Its cloven hooves grated against the stone as it shifted, its mutilated wings dragging pitifully on the ground. Black, crested horns like a demonic bronco jutted from its head, with eyes like cold black pits and extended canine teeth. Four arms stuck from its shoulders and abdomen, clutching three jagged swords and a stone scepter. The way it sat hunched seemed to accent the eternal grimace of pain etched into its face, and diminish its height, which was nearly the size of a single-story building. (It makes Tzekel look like a toddler!)

In a slow, careful tone it says "Twice has he escaped. But I am here, in this world. This crossing was not one of ease. I will ensure you retrieve him, for we will now draw him to us. For this, I need you." The Tothrezim crawls like a cat along the line of men and elves, staring at each of them. Their eyes stay on the ground, either out of fear or respect, though mostly both. "Steal into their chambers, where they are healing and resting. Take the old man, but leave the elf. You can not hope to overpower him. Too long have we left him to garner strength, and he has strengthened...considerably. Each of you, and all of you at once, would be no match for the boy, now. You must bait him to me, and I may dispose of him then. Say it will be so."

"It will be so," all say in unison. The Tothrezim's mouth twitches. It was almost a slight attempt at a smile. He lifts his hand and flicks it toward the door. Each man, elf, mage, cutthroat, and even gardener exits. Immediately after the last disappears, The Tothrezim gathers his matter about him and transports downward and to the east. He reappears in an elven ruin, straightening and throwing his wings in the air. He inhales deeply, drinking the scents in and exhaling. All this land, ripe for the taking.

His original plan for the elf had been simple; a lackey to do his extra-planar work. He had eventually decided on turning him demonic, but he had diverted from that path when he began studying as an Archmage. This changed things, but not entirely the boy's favor. Now, he was much, much more valuable. All this land for the taking, and all he needed was a puppet in politics. He would play the Kingdom of Alteric from the inside and destroy it, then seize the area for the Legion, obliterating a great enemy in the process. He would be named a General and given power. And he did love power. And with this power, his kind would no more be mere shadows of the Burning Legion. They would be its glorious arbiters of retribution. All they needed was a chance; a sign of greatness.

He would deliver his race unto greatness.

~___________________________________________________~

Vainar shifts in his hospital cot, wrenching his covers and bolting upright. Immediately, agony slices through his entire body, causing him to cry out. Surgeons rush forward and hold him down as a nurse holds a cup to his lips. He drinks without thinking, his suffering easing and strength returning to his limbs. The cold as well seemed much less piercing.

"You can't move too fast. You might open your wounds back up, like you just did. Those ribs will need a month or more to heal, magic or no. We did all we could for your leg, but it was badly broken. You will walk, don't worry, but running will be difficult for quite a long time. It should eventually fade to a pronounced limp."

Vainar listens to all this as he lies back, breath coming is quick, painful draws. "How long until I...until I can fight?"

"Fight?" a different medic inquires. "I wouldn't advise it for months. Not until you're fully healed. Strenuous physical activity is a bit of an impossibility after the damage you took. At least...for now. Like Jacovin said, it should be reduced to a bad limp in the future." Vainar groans and closes his eyes.

"I see. Thank you. I can't pay you, but...he is my teacher. He should...cover the both us."

"Just rest for now. The both of you should start praying to whatever you worship. Another scrape like that and I don't know if you'd get out alive." They each return to their stations, leaving Vainar alone. In the cot next to him lies Garrin, body unmoving. He wondered if the old human had woken. Perhaps he should have resigned himself to his fate as the Tothrezim's errand boy. So many would still be alive and well.

But he knew he would do it again, given the chance. He feared the path he had been going more than death itself. To be the very thing he abhorred. Not to mention, becoming a demon must be terrible for one's skin...

He lies in bed, musing to himself and reading for hours until succumbing to a troubled, restless sleep without so much as glancing at the cake sitting next to him. It wouldn't last long. The sleep, that is.

~___________________________________________________~

Korion was a short blood elf - barely five feet. The physicians blamed his mother's magic-tainted body for this stunting. It was easily presumed, considering she died during labor. In fact, they had to cut him from the womb. Every fifth day, he would make his way down to the Dalaran underbelly pubs and drink himself half to death, then secret himself off to some unknown corner to get his fix of Fel magic.

Naturally, he had been an easy buy for the Tothrezim. All the fixes Korion could ever need, whenever he liked. All he had to do was kidnap an old sod...

And that old sod was just down the street, lying in a hospital bed. The plan was simplicity itself. Make a distraction, zip in, grab the old bag, hop out. They didn't need a complicated plan. They had fel magic.

"Hey shorty. Let's get a move on, eh? I wanna get out of this place," a deep, masculine voice grumbled behind him. Of the five in the group, there were three humans, two blood elves, and the orc who had just spoken; talk about an odd man out. The orc was called Gaz'rog, and he was the only armored member of the party. He was also the only one carrying a bastard sword, coincidentally. His job was obvious, as was everything about the man. He would be the distraction, charging the front and raising hell whilst the other elf amongst them protected him with magic. The three humans and he were to infiltrate the hospital wing and get the old human. Simple.

"Why such a hurry? You know this is a suicide run. For you at least."

The orc, Gaz'rog, tosses his head, ponytail swishing like a horse's tail. "I will live, and I will earn the master's favor. He takes the strong - not the little rodents." He spits the last word out venomously. A short joke, and a jibe at his race in one foul swoop. Korion was genuinely impressed.

"Touche, my thick green friend. We only need a minute and a half at the most, so don't go killing half the district, m'kay?" he replies suavely. Gaz'rog simply rolls his shoulders and hefts the sword in his hands. "Right then, now's as good a time as any. After you, O' Green One. Let all of Dalaran feel the might of your unripened olive complexion. Lak'tur ohgur!"

"It's 'Lok'tar ogar', you imbecile!"

"Oh, just go."

Go he does. In fact, he does more than go; he raises that massive sword higher, bellows to the heavens, and charges at the hospital door like a half-blind berserker. The other elf struggles to keep up behind him. Korion waits for a count of ten, just to be sure, and breaks into a sprint after them. Already he could hear the sound of carnage from within as Gaz'rog took the guards by surprise. Guards at a hospital might be odd most of the time, but this was a special occasion. He wasn't put off; he enjoyed the opportunity to have people killed. It really pushed his ego toward the moon.

His small group run through the now opened doors (and most likely broken, courtesy of a certain orc berserker), skirting the small battle and making their way unseen down a hallway. At the end stand a pair of massive wooden double doors, easily fifteen feet tall. This would be it.

"Alright, remember the plan. Lars, Davin, you lay down the darkness. Jones and I have the old man. We need that portal up fast, so put your power into me, I'll get us there. Alright, count of three, we teleport in. One...

"Two...

"THREE!"

As one, they teleport inside. Lars and Davin conjure a blanketing black mist as soon as they appear. Excellent reaction time. Korion casts a counter to the spell, allowing him to see it in translucency.

"There, that one. I recognize him from the sewers. The fucking elf gave me this scar."

That was the human next to him. The scar was, truthfully, very horrid looking. You wouldn't think a blunted staff was capable, but it tore a nice gash on his cheek. It must have been hurting him terribly since then, as his eyes were fiery with anger. "Stick to the plan, Jones!" Odd. For some reason, it felt as if he had stolen that line from somewhere... "There's the old man, right next to him. Come on." The two stepped forward briskly. Thankfully, the Archmage was asleep. This would be easy.

~___________________________________________________~

Vainar's chest constricts as a blanket of shadow descends from above. He shrinks into his bed, throwing his hands over his head, body crying out at the sudden, jerking movements. He presses his face into the pillow, trying to keep as little shadow energy from his lungs as possible. He couldn't believe he had no magic to defend against this type of thing.

All of his senses diminish. A dreadful sound, as if an ocean raged around him, fills his ears; he could see nothing with his eyes clenched shut, and only the smell of...something, and it wasn't pleasant. Pain was his dominating sensation. Over a minute passes, each second agonizingly slow to Vainar as he remains hunched against the bed, expecting death or worse.

But the black fog lifts, and the sounds of pained moans fill the air. After such an event, he couldn't help but imagine everyone in the room was a zombie.

Then his wounds forced him unconscious.

~___________________________________________________~

Vainar woke to find Garrin missing from his bed, realization dawning on him. Their reasoning was plain, but cunning. He would rescue his mentor; what other choice did he have? On his bed a piece of parchment was found.

~___________________________________________________~

The Tothrezim had said just that to him when they first met. Pulled him out of a teleportation spell...straight into the Twisting Nether. To this day, Vainar is still completely unaware of what it is he supposedly bought from the damn demon.

The physicians had protested when he asked for Light healing. Claimed a quick fix wasn't what he needed. He wasn't any more a zealot than they were, but he needed to recuperate faster. They told him he would suffer more in the long run. The short run was his main concern for the moment.

His pain leaving him was a lovely bonus as well. Some semblance of strength returned to his limbs, and his cuts were closed. No bleeding, nothing to open. Then again, he felt three-hundred years old and limped heavily. Regardless, he could carry on. Physical combat was out of the question, but his magic was still running strong. He had that to be thankful for. It was a curious thing as well. In this state, he would imagine his power to be rather diminished. An Archmage bonus, presumably.

On a prestigious block in Dalaran, Vainar mounts the spiral staircase to Archmage Varissa's tower. Magi in towers. What a drain on the imagination. He grimaces at his small joke, entering the antechamber of her office quarters. Sitting at a small desk, a gnome with a full beard, impressive mustache, and ridiculously pink slicked up hair sits scrawling on a piece of parchment.

He approaches this desk and clears his throat. This gnome was Conjurer Peppitos, a rather squat gnome with the appetite of a tauren. Vainar had done his research...

"Oh, hello! May I help you sir?" the small creature squeaks. Vainar smiles involuntarily at the innocent, high voice. He didn't let it fool him for a second. He'd seen gnomes whip out daggers and gore Horde soldiers through the thighs, then slit their throats when they fell. Tricky little blighters. Clever, too.

"I was wondering if I could speak with Madam Dawntreader. It's rather urgent, but I can wait if I must." Tact. Tact was essential.

"I'm afraid she's painfully busy. This has been a troubling time in Dalaran. What, with all of the attacks." The gnome leans in over the desk, as if to share a juicy bit of gossip. "Some are saying there is a demon hiding in the Sewers!"

"You don't say? I'm sorry, little master, but I must be frank. I have with me a box of the finest truffles Dalaran has to offer, with little will to eat them myself. If you could get me...five minutes, even, I will give you all the truffles in this box. There are fifteen." The gnome sits up straight and folds his arms.

"Well, I'd never! You think you can buy me with truffles? I am ap- wait a moment, are those Allesia's famous dark chocolate, melt-in-the-mouth variety?"

"The very same. You are a connoisseur?"

"What? Oh. Well...perhaps I know of them. Five minutes, you said?"

"Five minutes," Vainar replies.

Peppitos eyes he box of truffles hungrily. "Wait here just a moment..." He stands up and and walks down the steps beside the chair, opening the door with a wave of his hand. He sticks his head in and converses mutely with Varissa inside. After more than ten seconds, he withdraws his head and waddles back to his chair and climbs up the steps, facing Vainar in his seat once more. "She will see you. You have five minutes and counting. Now, those chocolates?"

Vainar smiles and presents the box reverently. Bribed by chocolates. Only the gnomes would be eccentric enough for such a thing. Peppitos takes the box and sets it in front of him, propping the lid open and plucking a sphere of dark chocolate from the container before popping it in. He sighs with exultation. "Sho gewd..." Allowing himself a grin of amusement, Vainar crosses the room to the door and knocks.

"Enter," a brusque, female voice calls from within. He turns the knob and steps through, closing the door behind him. A Quel'dorei with high cheekbones and pale skin looks up at him in the dim lighting, regarding him steadily. "I would offer you a seat, but you won't find much need of it for the time you have. What is it that requires my undivided attention?"

Vainar resists the urge to reply with a sarcastic remark, biting his tongue and clearing his throat.

"My name is Vainar Vinin'drel. You may have heard of me." He prayed she hadn't. "I am apprenticed to Senior Archmage Garrin. He recently went missing."

Varissa clasps her hands over her desk and tilts her head, interest clear in her expression. "I have heard of this, of course. This is why I am so busy, you should know.You were there when he was taken, were you not?"

"I was. Forgive me, but I must be frank. As you noted, time is short. I know where he is. I know how to rescue him. The kidnappers left with me a note before they fled through their portal. They even set a date."

"And you want to rescue him. Mm...your proof?"

Vainar takes the folded parchment from his coat pocket, sliding it across the desk. He allows her time to read before continuing.

"There are rumors of a demon in Dalaran. They are correct - or were, rather. It had enslaved me for months before I finally broke free of its hold. Now it seeks to control me once more, and uses this as bait to draw me in."

Archmage Varissa smirks. "Aren't you important." Vainar waves the remark away with a gesture.

"Surely you see the advantage of having a puppet Archmage in Dalaran politics? It is obvious what he is doing. I come to you with this because I have a request. I need help bringing the Tothrezim to justice."

Varissa laughs openly now. "Tothrezim? You are aware that nobody of repute has ever claimed to have sighted this particularly elusive member of the Burning Legion? Some doubt their existence. You sound like a madman."

Vainar hits his fist against the desk, causing Varissa to start and stop laughing. She glares at him with a hard expression, bordering on indignant. Tact. Yes, of course. Tact. He sighs and stands straighter. "Forgive me. This, as you can imagine has been a difficult week. Consider for a moment what I ask. I need magic. I need the most talented magi you can bring together - even yourself. Before you speak," (Varissa had opened her mouth to interject), "listen to my terms. The praise for single-handedly proving the existence of a new race of demons and saving a prominent Archmage from certain death would be immense. It is the political opportunity of a lifetime. In return for your help, I will allow you to take all of the credit for this."

Varissa regards him closely, chewing the bottom of her lip as she analyzed his proposal. She shifts in her seat, leaning forward on her elbows. "What is your incentive?"

Vainar laughs. "My incentive? My life. I will not be a slave again. Either I succeed in this, or I die in the attempt. I will accept no deviation. All I want is my life back."

The high elf continues to study him relentlessly, fingers tapping a staccato beat on the desk. She leans back and steeples her fingers dramatically. "I do not think you are lying. However, you may very well be insane. Garrin did say it was a powerful demon, and hinted at its connections to the fabled Tothrezim. That it would be one itself...is, you understand, difficult to believe. I acquiesce, Vainar Vinin'drel, but only for my trust in Garrin, and my wish to see him back safely. Your terms are my insurance. Are we agreeable?"

Vainar exhales through his nose. "Perfectly. Thank you, my lady. This is a good decision you have made."

Varissa waves him toward the door, going back to her papers, but most likely her thoughts. Vainar steps out of the room to find Peppitos still munching on truffles with a pleasant smile on his face. He seems to not notice him as he makes his way down the spiral staircase. That takes care of magic...now he needed muscle. Someone to take care of the Tothrezim's ground forces. Garrin mentioned hiring mercenaries. There was only one place to find mercenaries in the city.

[Jason]

SSDD

The Bleeding Heart captain peers at Vainar with a look of undisguised suspicion. Vainar could hardly blame him. He had walked in and laid down enough mystique to fill a romance novel.

"I have an unorthodox transaction for you," he had said to the wiry looking troll. The troll had peered at him just as he was now with those curiously bright eyes.

"Your, eh, transaction...what is it? We got no problems widda bit of bad work, but we got codes. You elves always wanna give us da bad ones. So...what is it?" The troll had replied. Vainar, with slight hesitation, went on to say:

"I need your men to help me kill something. I need many...many soldiers. I'm building a small army, in fact. It has followers, you see. Elves, men - the like. Many of the like."

The Captain draws himself up in his chair. "Dis...thing is evil?" Vainar nods. "Well then, sir. I think we should discuss payment, don't chu?"

"Indeed. Now, the problem is, I don't have any money..."

And then the Bleeding Heart captain went about peering at him with undisguised suspicion. Vainar shifts uncomfortably, and the Captain stands. "What, chu think this is, funny, eh? This ain't funny. Can't pay, don't waste m'time."

"What I want to kill is a demon," Vainar continues. The Captain looks back up at Vainar with his peering eyes. "And a rare one. One never physically documented. If you were to...acquire a piece of that demon without the city's magi knowing...why, I think that would sell for quite a bit, don't you? A small fortune, if I'm right. Luckily for you, being right is a habit of mine."

The troll's mouth curls into a smile around his gloriously polished tusks. "This is good. I like this better than straight payin'. I get the price I choose...yea, this'll do. But we don't get our piece, we get a piece of you, get my meanin'?"

Vainar matches his smile. "Trust me, you will get your piece."

The Captain nods. "You meet me here in three days, we get you a plan, yea?"

"Very well. Until then, sir."

"'Til then, sir," he replies with another grin. He gestures in a shooing manner toward the door. Vainar turns and walks out of the inn room with a pronounced limp. It could be pronounced for some time yet.

He makes his way down the stairs, exiting the sprawling tavern and inn with a sigh of relief. He was glad to be rid of the smell.

It takes him almost an hour to find his way to a small inn within the metropolitan Dalaran streets. Something that wouldn't attract too much attention, and more than likely housed at least one warlock at any given time. Unfortunately, it the safest place for him at the moment. This also held a bit of irony. Vainar enjoyed irony, and so this was a welcome perk.

He approaches the innkeeper and rents a room under a false name, then ascends the stairs to his room, where he sits down at a rickety desk and promptly buries his head in his hands. It wasn't enough. Ten magi, ten to twenty mercenaries and two Archmagi? He needed archers. Magic was more than enough support, but he would need to save most for the battle with the Tothrezim. He sits in the same place on the bed for over an hour, head in hands, turning options around in his head.

Rangers. Rangers would be excellent additions to his small army. Unfortunately, there were little ways to acquire such a lovely commodity. Still they thought him insane - insane or just unknown. More often he finds himself hoping for the latter. Introductions are preferable to preconceptions.

But he had one particular option available to him. A certain...friend. He wasn't sure he could call her that anymore. It had been months since he'd last seen her, and the last she had seen of him was a rotten grin from an undead illusion. Idiot. She was one of a kind - not like any of the other blushing blood elven whores. He had no inhibitions calling them that, either. Consorting with humans and fornicating with kaldorei...disgusting.

But he didn't need her for that. Nor did he believe she had any more inclination. After all, she had seen herself all of his glorious insecurities and insanity. She'd shot him on four separate occasions, thrown a knife into his arm, and stabbed him with arrows...at least twice, he was sure. He reminded - or had reminded - her constantly of these hiccups. She always had a reason.

To be fair, he had disguised himself as a draenei that once...

Irrelevant. He had to find her. She had Farstrider connections, and he needed those connections. He walks (or limps, rather) to the hotel's water basin (he was surprised they had one, honestly) and holds his hands over it, stilling the water and turning it first reflective, then black, then snowy white. From white it begins to fill in with color, and an image swirls into solidity like a mass of ink. Anaiya...she was sharpening a sword on a box, inside a small hut. He frowns, touching the surface of the water with a glowing blue digit and dragging it across with a series of complex gestures. He had mastered this particular form of scrying during his long stretches of textual research with Garrin.

The image pulls out from the hut, taking tatters of space at a time, recognizing it, and moving forth until it was outside the hut. The Barrens, obviously, but that didn't help much. The Barrens was terribly large. He swivels the view, spying a peak in the distance. He smiles. He remembers standing atop that peak. He lets the image fade, recasting the spell of scrying, pooling them mana into producing an image of the peak. The colors swirl into place, and he spies the hut in the distance from a bird's eye view. Excellent. Not far from their old camp, actually.

He releases the spell, gathering his belongings and stuffing it under the bed. He would need to be back in three days, hopefully less. He also didn't want to overcharge his stay. That would be an unfortunate pitfall to his ongoing novelistic experience.

Vainar goes to the dusty, slightly cracked mirror, arranging his hair to some form of formality and washing his face and neck. Satisfied with his appearance, he makes his way to the center of the room, recalling the location from memory and forming the spell in his mind. He channels the spell for a few moments before disappearing in the customary flash of blue light.

~___________________________________________________~

He reappears, standing (and wavering slightly) atop the elevated ground overlooking the hut that currently houses Anaiya. Curiously, nobody else is in sight. The yellowed Barrens grass is broken by the supplies littering the hastily constructed hut, and a tree offers shade beside it. A welcome reprieve from the sun, which Vainar was already beginning to feel in his scarlet robes.

He eyes the ground next to the hovel, concentrating for several seconds before quickly teleporting the thirty yards to its location. The customary blue flash is muted by the light, and will hopefully be hidden from Anaiya's sharp eyes. He exhales and steps forward.

Summarily, Vainar's meeting with Anaiya is a success. He managed to renew their friendship, and was promised the troops he needed. That is, roughly six. Six was better than none. In addition, he let his affections get the better of him. He agreed to travel with them to Eversong on some harebrained attempt to rescue a dolt of theirs. Before agreeing to any of this, however, he needed more suitable clothing. He returned to Dalaran, spends the night in his room, and returns the following morning. Most annoyed, he teleports back to his room and scries Anaiya. Eversong already. How the deuce did they travel so quickly? He waves the thought and teleports to their location, which he instantly recognized in his homeland, being not far from the road he would walk from Fairbreeze Village.

He teleports to their location succinctly. He did a terrible lot of teleporting. He would need to cut down, or he feared he might grow overly dependent.

From there, he assists in negotiations with the...whoever it is these people are. They receive a letter instructing Anaiya to meet the correspondent alone in Tranquillien, on the border of Eversong and The Ghostlands. How utterly cheery. Anaiya met the aforementioned woman. They speak briefly (and scathingly) before setting off away from town. Vainar and the others follow. He sits in wait, warlock guards and demons sitting outside the entrance to the glade Anaiya and the women entered. Vainar, being rather accustomed to the particular spell (his interest in the spell was piqued by a certain "Singe" character of whom Vainar met as he studied in the Aula Arcanum) "Invisibility," promptly uses it, sneaking past the guards. He arrives in time to see Anaiya and the women locked in battle, for some reason. He wastes little time in attacking.

He destroys one of the warlocks when a voidwalker wraps its arms around him from behind. Severe agony grips him as dark thoughts swell and rage in his mind. Acting on emotion, he feels himself almost crumple inward, then screams as a wave of Arcane bursts forth, blasting in all directions. The Voidwalker all but dissipates, and an orc Warlock goes flying, blood leaking from his ears.

The other two had succinctly dispatched their warlock opponents. His wounds weighing on him more so than ever, Vainar turns and eyes the leader of the group. He was dressed accordingly, with tattered, runic robes. His elven eyes showed a particular brightness in the presence of so much Fel, showing eerily in the wane light. Anaiya had by now finished her opponent with aggressive efficiency, and she was making her way toward them. He saw this from his peripheral vision, but didn't dare break his staring contest with the leader for fear of giving her away.

But then, he didn't have to. An imp he hadn't noticed before had already turned, and caught his attention as it began casting a fireball. Before he had a mind to crush the thing, it flung it's ball of flame at Anaiya. She was likewise surprised, and the blow charred past her leather armor, into her arm. She immediately went to the ground from sheer force of the spell and began to pat the flames out. What an invitation for Vainar.

Rage boiled in his chest, but he forced it down. Emotions would only hinder his concentration. He almost begins channeling a spell when the leader thrusts a stone into the air and begins chanting rapidly. As he stares dumbly at the lead warlock, a light twinkles thirty feet up; then, a massive hole opens in the sky, and a fel-flamed meteorite streaks from it, smashing into the ground and forming a crater. Vainar covers his head and stoops down as debris fly.

Just as he pushes himself to his feet, an infernal steps out of the hole and roars with the sound of grating stone. It charges, and Vainar quickly teleports away. Best leave that for them. The leader had promptly turned and began running. Coward. He bares his teeth and waits for the man to make a thirty yard mark before teleporting behind him and throwing a spell.

It hits him square in the back. He goes down. Amazingly, he's up in the next second, eyes flashing and hands clenching. Dark energy swirls around his closed fists, culminating in a swirly dark masses that he brings forward with both hands together. It shoots forward, as if eager to tear into Vainar's soul. Thinking rapidly, Vainar constructs an Arcane barrier between him and the black, spherical missile. It slams into the barrier, and Vainar feels the draw on his power. Contrary to what Vainar suspected it would do, which is glance off, the spell stuck to his barrier and began crawling over the edges, pouring into him.

Agony and a sense of wrongness pervades Vainar's mind and body, forcing him to the ground with the sheer shock of it. The Death Bolt left him writhing there for several seconds, giving the warlock ample time to begin walking toward him. He recovers, rising to a knee in a flash and firing a fast, brutal fireball that shot out more like a jet for its mark. The blast strikes him full on the chest, sending him flying backwards. His robes tattered, smoking, skin burning, he rises to his feet once more like a juggernaut and howls, skin morphing, changing in color and body growing. His hands go clawed, skin back, and horns sprout from his forehead.

He stands hunched, his now demonic skin glowing faintly in the gloom. He goes to all fours for a moment before springing forward like a rabid beast.

Vainar gets to his feet and begins channeling the Arcane, mind rapidly going through the spell. On a run, the demon jumps into the air, flaps his wings once, and launches a shadowbolt at him, dropping back to the ground and standing erect. Vainar, still channeling, simply waits for the bolt to draw near before sidestepping it. The Demon howls again and begins rushing forward once more. Vainar grins devilishly as he completes the spell, loosing it on the Demon in a martyrdom of anticlimax.

The Demon stops dead in its tracks, going to the ground chest first as if pushed by a massive hand of the gods. It struggles there, even managing to rise to a half knee before being pushed back into the ground by his Arcane imprisonment. Vainar's face twists into a snarl as he looks at the thing.

"I hate demons," he growls. He immediately begins channeling another spell. Half a minute passes, the demon struggling under its prison and Vainar focusing solely on the spell building in his body, aware that he was pushing his limit to the near-breaking point. He begins casting the spell, but the effect isn't immediate. Small purple orbs of energy, six in number, wink into existence above the Demon, growing in size as Vainar's life energy fed their appetites. Each swelled to the size of a gnome, their slow spin coming to a halt. One after the other, they fire a concentrated ray of Arcane into the trapped demon hunter, punching through the Arcane prison holding it down as the third orb begins firing. Soon, all are tearing into the the Demon at once, who utters a last guttural snarl before all but disintegrating.

And Vainar, completely spent, drops to the ground with hardly the strength to stay awake. He'd never pushed himself so far. He felt that if he did fall asleep, he wouldn't wake.

Then his companions gather around him, offering him support. Yvakara, this large tauren Death Knight, holds her hand over Vainar for support. He smiles weakly and grabs it. He's lifted off the ground and to his feet like a toddler. He stumbles and the Death Knight takes hold of him.

After this, Vainar reaffirms his friendship with Anaiya, much to his liking, and leaves after a large course of soup.

Now back at his room in Dalaran, Vainar recounts the battle with interest. He was surprised. The spell he used to kill the warlock was one he had created nearly a year ago, still struggling under the effects of his alter magic-ego. It seemed mythical then - impossible for a mage like him. His pride swelled as he remembered the demon obliterating utterly. Of course, he would never be able to use it. It was a death wish. It was simply too much. But the power...was intoxicating.

And again he finds himself thinking, Where did this power come from?

And his stubborn pride would respond, Yourself. You are an Archmage.

And he accepted it as general fact.

~___________________________________________________~

"He has allies. As he grows stronger, I grow weaker. Tell me why this is, minion."

"Wh- I don't know what you mean, m'lord. You appear just as strong as ever."

The Tothrezim, accustomed now to dealing with the idiocy of mortals, simply sighs melodramatically. "Your binding is unraveling. My summoning is coming undone. We no longer have the means to renew my corporeal establishment. This we can not help, but think not that I have no solutions left.

"The Boy has the power. We have the knowledge. With the Old Man and the Boy combined, we might open a portal with their energies, bringing into this world my...less corporeal minions. This will also reestablish my bond with this realm. The Old One will die, but the Boy I will let live through the process. You understand the importance of keeping him alive. Had I not wanted him alive, he would not be alive."

The Underling thinks that it must be anger he hears in the Tothrezim's voice. What would the Master ever feel rage towards, other than the heathens that do not accept him? But the Master loves those that serve him more than he hates those that defy him. Blessed are those in his Shadow, hidden from Death, its cruel claws. Its Passion is its love and hate.

It was curious, as he never remembered hearing these words spoken, yet he remembered them. It was an odd feeling, but one he didn't shy from. After all, the Master had chosen him. He would have these thoughts, would he not?

"We will not fail, m'lord," the Underling almost pleads to his god. "His forces will break upon ours, and your wrath will scatter the enemy like ashes before your wake." He bows his head in submission.

The Tothrezim smiles inwardly. He encouraged such praise whenever possible. It helped promote stability in his subjects. "Go, then. Conduct this battle as you see fit."

The Underling falls to his knees and bows before the Tothrezim. "I can think of no greater honor, m'lord."

"Go."

With this single syllable, the human scurries off to see to the defenses. Through his methods, he learned who Vainar trusted. He wants his woman pet to plan the attack. Idiocy. While she wasn't as foolish as the Boy, he still found it odd she didn't shirk away from his offer. She complied without resistance.

And yet, he had noticed her darker side. Her allure towards path of those that followed him. It interested him. Even intrigued him. She could make a fine replacement for Vainar...

Perhaps he would keep her as well.

With a pertinent sigh, the Tothrezim walks through space and outside his complex to the grassy slopes of the small island they inhabited in the sky amongst the green of Nagrand. A few of his sentries cried out at his sudden appearance, but ceased making noises rather immediately as he fully materialized. The dropped down immediately and bowed, begging forgiveness for their transgression.

And he forgave then. After all, they did have a battle to win. Why waste troops on a sour mood?

He waves his hand dismissively, turning and walking down the slope, each giant stride carving furrows into the ground with his cloven hoof. The Old Archmage was suspended in the air, back arched unceremoniously as he stared blankly into the sky. Forced comatose, of course, not dead. Not yet, at any rate.

This could be easily remedied.

[Jason]

(( I think I'll finish this eventually, when I find the time. It won't be canonical, but I hate leaving anything unfinished. Therefore, with absence of actual merit...expect future updates! (maybe) ))