Drabbles: Everyone else.
A backlog of drabbles for all my other characters, from my tumblr. :O
-
Sarrael:
-
Sanity -
..It is therefore our recommendation that Archmage Lownoon be placed on temporary..
“This is bullshit.” Her fist crumpled in, bony knuckles clenched white around the thick parchment. “I’ve spent my entire life working towards this. More than two hundred years. If they think they can just push me out now by claiming I’m crazy -“
Llevandir looked her over, green eyes lingering on the deep hollows beneath her blues. Too bright, and too wide by half. Her cheekbones might have cut.
“No one is saying that.” He murmured. “No one important, at any rate.”
“Everyone is saying that.” She snarled back, voice sharp as a whipcrack. “It’s the felling second committee, they’re just a bit important, you asinine sh-“
“Minn’da?”
Wide hands reached around the edge of the doorway, a long guileless face peering in after them.
“Are you alright?”
“I’m fine, baby.” Sarrael choked out, swiping a hand across her face and pressing on an empty smile. “I’m just fine. How are you doing? Why don’t you tell me about what you did today?”
She gestured the man to come closer. The letter fell to the floor, cast aside.
Llevandir knew his cue to leave.
-
* [NSFW, boobs.]
“What in fel are you doing?”
Llevandir’s smile hesitated at the threshold of the little house, refusing to slip fully into place. The door shut behind him with a quiet click - Dalaran’s chill banished, if only temporarily. She looked calmly up to him, brow arched in amusement.
“This is how I think best.”
“You think best while lying on your back naked on the floor in the middle of the hallway?”
“I’ll note that I didn’t specify precisely what it was that I was thinking about.”
“Yes, well. I’ve brought the notes.”
-
*
“When you ask yourself - was it worth this? The pain, the struggle? The need? When your see friends abandon you, family turn away, turn inwards - fold.
When your days seem darkest, when you read betrayal on the lips of every simpering human man or woman. When you feel an alien amongst your few allies, an exile.
Remember then that you have conquered. Remember that you have survived.
Make no mistake, they have not. They are but hollow shells. They cling to a broken city, one it falls to us to some day rebuild. They pull to their hated enemies, ones that it falls to us to some day purge. They hold a fading dream, a dead end, a route better abandoned - best to never even have begun.
And we?
We have a Covenant. A promise, to our nation and to ourselves. Blood and blood aside, we are all the children of the sun.
And we shall never fall.”
-
Tixela:
-
*
“Melsa -“ Tixela loomed from the doorway, voice sharp with alarm. ”- What’re y’doing in my things?”
The younger woman glanced behind, threw her a lazy smile.
“Jus’ lookin’.”
She crooned, hands raised to display the little jar cradled between them. Open. Fel.
“Tixie, what’re y’doin’ runnin’ around with a kinna thing like this? Always lecturin’ me on it and you got a whole fellin’ little stash jus’ tucked away back in here?”
Melsa raised one thin black eyebrow, voice sing-song high.
“Hy-poh-crite.”
Tix could feel the blood pounding in her cheeks as she moved forward, grabbing for the jar.
“Too slow, y’are really too slow at that, that’s not gonna work on me. Not when ‘m quick.”
Brow pinching in, Tixela’s eyes fell to the sparkling blue dust scattered about the floor, over Melsa’s clothes, crusting indelicately beneath one nostril -
- A sigh. She really should have known better than to keep any of it here. Biting back a snarl of frustration, she rocked onto her haunches, easing herself onto the floor. Dull green eyes tracked Melsa’s movements. Erratic. Trembling. From the quantity of dust probably up the woman’s nose right now, Tixela couldn’t say that she was too surprised.
There wasn’t anything to do but to get the jar back and make sure that her errant roommate spent the evening with supervision.
“Mellie, baby, give me th’jar, please. I need it for class - give me th’jar baby, come on. I need t’put it back where it belongs, an’ then we kin’ put y’to bed.”
She coaxed, making a mental note to ask Duskwhisper about a locker.
“Melsa - c’mon, give me the jar. I’m not playing.”
Melsa snorted - a loud hork - defiant with a toss of her head.
“Th’heart wants what th’heart wants, Tixie. If y’want this, then come an’ fuckin’ get it.”
-
Shard:
-
*
She always kept the doors locked at night. For a while, he hadn’t been sure why. There was no crime in the sleepy little village.
-
*
It wasn’t that he couldn’t sketch realistically, or at least that he couldn't try.
But what was there and what was there were often two entirely different things, and he preferred to draw the latter.
-
*
He seldom fell in dreams.
Not without his arms catching first - his wide raven’s wings billowing out to take flight. He’d soar without fear, a net of his own feathers beneath him as he rode the five winds.
North, South, East and West and Rumor.
All his to command, all secure as they stretched into his vast pinions.
He always flew so high. He’d seen stars.
Awake now, he cradled the broken arm with a hard wince. Leaping from the rooftop had proven reality less reliable.
-
*
[TRIGGER WARNING FOR SELF-INJURY, BLOOD, KNIVES. Highlight to read.]
The first had been simple enough.
The pain of it was sharp. Grinding and digging - a cry burying itself in his palm. But he was strong and he was careful, keeping the knife’s carving shallow.
Only the very tip of the blade traced back through the welling blood. A silver shard dancing its way across his skin. Again. Deeper.
The boy bit his lip, holding the sounds in. To whine would be to admit weakness, and a hero was not weak. Teeth ground against a cheek long-since gnawed raw, his brow furrowed in concentration even as the air hissed out in little mewls around his tongue.
At last - done. He was almost done. One of them was done. Open. But only one.The left remained shut, still unmarked.
He’d need assistance.
-
Saxonorous:
-
*
“I believe in something greater than us.”
-
*
Nothing felt better than freedom.
The simple things were always the ones to do him in - the long stretch of a neck, an unsteady footing of rain-slicked stone, the bright burn of sun in his eyes.
It was almost enough to believe he’d never been shut away.
-
*
Why bother with taking the steps when you could simply leap?
Well, other than the Lady Dawnshaper’s loud objections. Saxonorous had only concussed himself once, but by her yelling you’d have thought he’d spilt his skull all over the rug.
-
*
It was strange to remember sometimes that the tattoos hadn’t always been there. That they hadn’t always been just another part of his skin.
That was their point, he supposed - that they hadn’t been. They were supposed to be a change, the marks of a new beginning.
He’d gotten them to signal the difference between now and then, and to the young lord’s mind the trailing red loops served that purpose well enough. They were a map, after all, meant to move him forward. Directions to the next stage of his life.
But every so often he’d still glance down and for a moment simply forget. He’d would trace the red lines with a wondering hand, bemused.
Now when did you get there, again?
-
*
Sometimes he can still feel it crawling beneath his skin.
It’s always the same pattern of lines that the magic pours through. Tiny rivers cut their way across his bones, carve out a path through the latticework of vessels.
He feels them tighten when he looks to the great walls of the city. They boil, his blood smoking as the wide red banners unfurl.
It burns to feel it all about him here once more, a washing wave of heat. Sunlight from the Well to the north. Restored.
It is the cleanest fire he knows, and still it can’t purge the taint from his veins. Nor should it - it’s a mark, he knows this. Intentional. A scar.
A reminder:
I have redeemed you. This is why you serve.
-
*
He was called many things, but ‘dignified’ was seldom one.
-
Quelthys:
-
*
It wasn’t unusual to find Zilthuras lurking within the nook of a shelf, tiny pastry tray extended out into the aisle.
Usually he offered the cookies politely enough, but on occasion the imp was known to grow more belligerent - particularly when his master was out.
More than one customer had fled the shop whilst being pelted with oatmeal raisin.
-
Qilin:
-
*
“They survive things.”
She stares at him, watches the pits of his eyes. Newly green. A sick, slick shade of it. Oily. Too bright.
“So promise me, okay? An’ I’ll promise you.”
He grabs out for her hand, clutches it in his.
“We’ll survive.”
-
*
“And they’re really all mine?”
Narryl smiled down.
“You said that you wanted a pet.”
-
*
“You’re slouchin’ again.”
“Oh, like you ain’t.”
-
*
They were scuffed. They were hideous. They were clunky, and worn, and two sizes too large.
And they were hers.
-
*
“What's my least favorite thing in the world? Well. D’you know that feeling you get sometimes, when you wake up and your mouth’s just…not even dry, but cottony. Like something crawled into it and died, and it’s not even that it smells bad, but it tastes like it? And then all day you walk around trying to scrape it off your tongue like the tongue itself ain’t the real problem?”
She pauses, takes a long drag on the cigarette.
“Well, it’s not that.”
-
*
“It’s just y’look kinna pissed, ‘s all.”
“I am kinda pissed. How the fuck did you get in here again?”
-
*
“Yellow?”
“Yellow.”
-
*
“If you can’t look like it -”
She pushes her tongue out through her lips, edges furrowing in at the thick gaps between gum, where teeth should sit. Wide eyes the sickly yellow-green of survival stare back down at her broad face, her squashed nose, her short, flat frame.
“- Act like it.”
-
Nythras:
-
* [TW: Blood]
Sometimes he’d see them.
Not in the photographs Elyra sent, or even in their drawings - portraits of crayon and bright paper framed carefully by his bunk.
Sometimes he'd see them there. With him. Sitting at the desk, or standing in a corner of the room.
He tried to ignore them. He was mostly successful.
Those aren’t your children, he’d remind himself. They’re safe at home, you’ll see them again soon.
They always said such awful things.
-
Menuois:
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*
“How ‘s this supposed t’be relaxin’? Smells like lavender’s tryin’ t’climb up an’ pull out my brain through my nose.”
“Don’t be such a fuss, ‘s herbal. Good for you. Cleanses out all that bad energy swimmin’ around up there while you’re swimmin’ around down here.”
“Y’are so full of shit, Tix.”
“‘Least y’smell better now.”
-
*
Nights were always long. Never quite long enough.
Menuois knew some folks hated the dark. He supposed he could understand it, in an abstract sort of way. To most, the dark meant the unknown. It meant blindness, loneliness. It meant uncertainty, and that made folks afraid.
Menuois preferred the darkness. Each day he’d crawl from the sun as soon as he was able. Wrapping himself in the midday shade of an unlit room, he'd wait for night to fall again. It was easier than facing the unrelenting shine outside.
Blue lights. Blue eyes. Blue fire.
Cold.
Every now and then he’d catch a glimpse still, in the flame. A flicker: the edge of something terrible and bright.
-
*
I’ve attempted to give you crystals that best suit your personalities, or assumed skillsets.
What was a ‘pompous windbag’ crystal like, anyway?
Menuois kept the thought to himself. It wouldn’t have been grateful to voice aloud.
-
*
“His ribs. Light, they’re all skeletons.”
There are voices around him. Menuois knows that he should acknowledge them, blink open some greeting, give the reassurance of remaining soft tissue. He keeps his eyes shut.
Skeletons.
They’d been near enough to it, when the Dawn had finally pulled them out from the glacier’s frozen walls.
There had been shouting, someone had pressed blankets over him. A muddle - then a sudden warmth that had set the hunger in his spine to fresh aching. Some sort of spell - a portal? - that they’d been ushered through.
Dalaran, maybe.
He couldn’t tell, wasn’t looking. Didn’t want to - the purple flare of magic was too bright on his cave-dweller’s eyes.
Arms had tugged at him, guiding his blind stumble along. It hurt, but why he couldn’t have said. Menuois had long ago stopped trying to distinguish one pain from the other. After a while they all just ran together into one long, icy ribbon.
The rest of it was a blur of healers and Light-heat and noise.
The noise doesn’t seem to have ever really stopped - it’s there in his dreams and it’s there in the ward and it’s here now in the wide chattering mouths that don’t seem to ever quite just shut up.
Save for now.
There’s a different sort of noise now, and like a bad cliche he realizes that it’s himself that's making it, that he’s sobbing. His throat lurches, jaw snapping shut, but by then it’s too late.
The voices pause, hesitate before creeping near.
“Goldwhittle? Private?”
He screws his lids shut tighter. No. Please. Not right now.
“Goldwhittle - just - if you can hear us -“
No, please, go away.
A soft hand on his bony shoulder. Another hugs to the sharp blade of his cheek. He wants to flinch, can’t find the energy to.
”- It’s going to be okay. You’re safe now.”
He wants to scream.
-
Llevandir:
-
*
“So you see, there’s Light in everything.”
The Lady smiled to her son, extending the tiny grub out. A peace offering to the child she still didn’t understand.
-
*
“You’re giving her a bug for Mother’s Day.”
“Yes - isn’t she beautiful?”
Saxonorous watched his brother in silence, eventually clapping a hand to the boy’s shoulder.
“She’s something, for sure.”
-
*
He’d never been good with physical affection. He didn’t hug back. Never had, even as a child.
She tried anyway.
-
* [TW: Probable bug death. :C]
Failure.
A sudden thrash of panic in his chest as that most uncommon of visitors came knocking.
The knowledge that this time, things were not so easily mended.
-
*
He could still remember it, the first time that he’d seen a butterfly up close.
He’d been young - only just a few short years into walking on his own and it had fluttered up and simply landed on his nose, its pale blue wings trembling in the slight spring breeze.
He’d stood so perfectly, absolutely still as it perched there to rest. He might have been a statue of a boy as he stared, not even daring to breathe.
He would have done anything then not to disturb it, not to shatter the moment of pure wonder that was already setting his tiny mind to spinning.
It just looked so fragile -
The net crashed into his face and he fell to grass, nose streaming blood. Distantly he noted the sound of his brother’s whooping - a cry caught with sudden concern and a shout for their governess.
“Llev? Llev, are you okay?”
A wide face ringed with gold curls pushed into his own. Fat fingers pressed to scoop off a segment of smashed wing from the pale skin where it had been smeared.
“Llev, look Llev, you caught one. Look how pretty it is, Llev. Llev? Keep your eyes open, okay?”
Shaking, on his shoulder.
“Llev?”
-
Lazirus:
-
*
Mornings were harder, lately.
He’d quit with meditation a while ago now. There was always an edge of guilt around it - a habit so hard ingrained and so easily abandoned.
But it was ever easier as his head throbbed and his legs ached and the dawn’s light began to creep through the cracks in the curtains to simply roll over and go back to sleep.
Just for an hour or so. Just until he absolutely had to leave.
-
*
He hadn’t had a coat like it in - what now, six or seven decades?
But on days when the customers were rude (they had their reasons, he knew) or when the pay stretched too thin for comfort (he had to keep better track of the numbers, he knew), he remembered the bright yellow hood and the long snaggle of the felt claws.
It was a childish want, and that made it all the stranger to hold. It seemed that when he was little he’d always been wanting to be older, and then here was now - an adult at last - and his thoughts kept tripping back to lions and raincoats.
It was silly. There wasn’t even rain here.
-
Haast:
-
*
Life and death are not as two sides of a coin, but of an enormous eye, that She watches us through.
Always, behind her lids, there is Night. Even as She opens them to see, She brings Night with her in Her gaze - Her loving son subdued by Her will.
But He watches from within Her. And in this, the Night is all things, even as they are embraced by day.
We long for the Night to return. We wait for the long, hard watch of An’she to pass once more. To deliver us back to the Many.
But the Night is ever in us, and around us. He works through us, and we rejoice with all that are brought closer to Him, each carving of our talon that instruments His love.
We are the blinking of Her eyes, and we serve our task with joy.
-
*
Winter’s touch was as cold as ice.
-
*
There is peace in the Night, as there is anger. Some know only the Night’s anger, and we must only feel pity for these, that they know only His wrath.
There is no peace as that of a deep sleep, and its wakening.
In the Night, in the Many, you will have this. You will know the peace of truth, of oneness. Of the Mother.
The Father fills us so that we might serve with our Brothers, with our Sisters, that we might be truly one with the Mother once more.
-
Grikk:
-
*
“Why is it always fruit?”
“It’s fashionable.”
“For wallpaper?”
“I wouldn’t expect an elf to understand.”
-
*
Seventeen years ago, I left Kezan behind and never looked back.
That’s a lie.
One never actually stops looking to the past. We confront it constantly. Every glimpse in the mirror, each brush of our eyes across an old photograph.
Seventeen years ago, I left Kezan. It will never truly leave me.
-
*
“No.”
“Jehs’ a small one.”
“No.”
“It’d be good fah’ morale.”
“Losing an eye is not good for morale.”
“Yeh’re unnaturahl, thahs’ what y’ahr.”
-
*
“Maybe you should stick to diagnosing the body.”
-
*
“Sometimes I feel a bit like tattooing that on my forehead.”
“Ah’m pretty sure tha’ yah parhsahnalahty does th’jahb jes’ fine.”
“You’re a true friend, Dankspark.”
“Ahlways been.”
-
*
You’re running out of time, Mister Gullscraper.
-
Bosque:
*
Gnarled claws gouged thick into the bark, carving out her message to the rest of the wood.
-
*
“A satyr.”
“Synonyms.”
Her hand dropped to the dagger’s hilt. The thing that had once been an elf twisted its head to the side, sharp teeth bared into a mocking grin.
“Stay your little fang, sentinel. I have a proposition for you.”
-
*
An angry yellow stare and the loft of one long, white brow was her only response.
-
*
There was no grave, so she settled for the snow.
It fit well enough, Invi had always loved the cold. A creature of it, a native within Winterspring’s thick drifts and icy peaks.
Bosque could never stand it when they’d visited together. The land’s beauty was as abundant as its ice, but that did little to soothe the wretched shivering it inspired, or the harsh sting of eartips blackened by frost.
The other sentinel had helped with that. A softer sight for amber eyes, and warmer by half.
Cold now. And wet. The candle sputtered as fat flakes dropped into the flame, pooling and melting about the wick. The woman watched in silence as it flickered, tracing the coils of incense smoke up into the white sky beyond.
“Ande’thoras-ethil, kal’shan.”
-
-
Aven:
-
*
“You swear you’ve actually eaten this before?”
Annoux cast a dubious glance to the dish before him, blue eyes lingering over the thick rubbery suckers.
“I’ve eaten it, and I’ve seen them alive. They’re bigger than you’d think, and damn smart. They’ll make tools out of rocks, if you watch them, even change colors to evade prey. It’s a bit strange that we just don’t have any here, really. They were all over the place down south, the Captain kept complaining whenever we’d pull in the nets.”
“What, no - you were out sailing on a ship now too? Now I know you’re bullshitting.”
Aven grinned, chopsticks dipping down to snag a bit of tentacle.
“Where d’you think it was that I’ve been for the past year or so?”
“No,” Annoux breathed. “I don’t believe it, you’re trying to pull one over on me. You hate water. What in fel is a fire mage be doing in the middle of the ocean, anyway?”
Aven chewed, sticks darting out once more to rap lightly on the man’s bandaged knuckles.
“Well, what is a pianist doing going and breaking his fingers?”
“It was just the one and it’s healed. But. Touche. You’re sure this is edible?”
“Would I lie to you?”
-
Annoux:
-
*
A motorcycle and someone beautiful riding in back.
As stupid daydreams went, it was hard to beat.
-
*
He’d never been very good with violin. Not compared to the others - piano, lute, flute, harp - anything really that he’d set his mind to picking up.
It just didn’t come as naturally to him. He’d practiced longer at it than he had anything else, and still the instrument would surprise. He'd think he finally had it, and then the sharp wail of an unintended string would cry out as he sawed away, painfully far off-pitch.
It was delightful.
-
*
“Everyone messes up sometimes.”
“You never do.”
-
*
Less good, and more like he could breathe again. Even as the smoke choked down into his lungs, the panic in his chest would stop seizing, release.
Relief.
-
*
“…Shit, I think I dropped my keys.”
-
*
Sometimes he left himself notes in his lunchbox.
-
*
“At least it was just the neck. That’s fixable.”
A pause. At the end of the little bed, an enormous orange cat crouches, staring silently to the wall.
“Well. Really expensive to fix. Really fucking expensive. Not like if it was at the joint at least, but I bet it’s glueable. Probably doesn’t need anything fancier than that. Might even be able to do it myself, if I’m really careful and get my hands on some clamps.”
Annoux glances down, reaching out an absent hand to scratch at the tabby’s ears.
“You’re not even listening, are you?”
-
*
The important part wasn’t whether he even took the advice. It was that someone had been willing to give it.
-
*
“Yeah, Ginger. You’re a bad motherfucker.”
“Stop feeding my cats cigarettes.”
-
*
“No, Antonius!” He cried, voice pleading, mock-shrill. “No, my love!”
Annoux cracked the shell of the broken man against the side of the pan already holding the shattered bodies of his brothers. In somber silence, he watched as the mealy innards slithered down and in.
“Greta…” He groaned, in the egg’s dying wheeze. “Don’t let them…take…our children…”
Lighting the mageflame with a flick of the rune, he whistled as fire seared up to swallow the remains of the troop.
“It was a massacre.”
-
*
The trees were growing agitated.
-
*
Streams ran everywhere underfoot. Stepping off the path would reveal trickles, gullies, entire rivers coursing through. Each of them leading back to the lake at the center, disappearing again beneath the foggy non-ground.
-
*
“Why would you ever trust him with that?”
“He said that I could.”
“Could is a lot different from should, Anno.”
-
*
He never actually smoked them. Hadn’t owned a lighter in years. He’d given it to Aren, before he went North.
In case you need a little extra up there.
-
Andovar:
-
*
It took careful control to hold to the illusion of sleep.
He kept his breath steady, eyes shut, until he was certain that she’d drifted away once again.
Only then did green slits peer open wearily - warily - to slide across her sleeping form.
Rest was an elusive beast.
-
*
What was it? That feeling that you can only say in Thalassian?
Deja vu.
He’d kept from comment, unsure of which woman to address.
-
*
There’s a bad ending.
Maybe it never happens. Maybe it doesn’t happen for a long time. But it’s always there, lurking. Curled up in the back of his skull, in wait.
The knowledge that things don’t always go as planned.
-
*
It was a while before he looked up again. His steps had lagged, small legs slowing steadily until he’d fallen far behind the others.
Now, alone in the brush, all seemed at once too quiet.
He began to grow afraid.
-
*
“Every sword needs a name.”
Elisha scolded, pressing the short ‘blade’ back to him.
Andovar accepted, his tiny hands ducking beneath the slight weight. The wood was smooth and red, turned and painted by a practiced hand.
Not quite a real sword, She’d told him. But that might have to wait until you can lift one properly.
“Well, go on then. What are you going to call it?”
The boy looked up, fighting to make sense of his sister’s expression. Dark hair billowed about a face pinched into a serious frown, but he could just make out a smile creeping around the glow of her bright blue eyes.
“Sword?” He offered, hesitant.
The response met with a tittering snort of a laugh. The young woman dropped to a knee, one wide hand coming to rest gently on the child’s shoulder.
“We’ll work on it.” She murmured. “A proper sword for a proper knight.”
-
*
"Swear it.”
The words were snarled, his head whipping around as he turned to stalk out.
He paused by the doorway, teeth gritting as the pun dawned on him.
-
*
“As if were not fool enough already.”
He slipped a small grin before his face fell slack, in sudden realization.
” - Myself, a fool, mean to say. As if were not evidenced just now.”
-
* [TW: Gore.]
She moved so quickly, in dreams.
Quicker than she ever had in life.
-
*
“What on earth are you doing?”
“More efficient.”
“You look like a troll.”
-
* [NSFW, naked man.]
“At some point, you need to sit down and realize that you’re not eighty any more.”
-
*
He’s never really stopped seeing himself as he was then.
It’s a shock sometimes, looking in the mirror.
-
Alsk:
-
*
“Yah both been aht each othah’s throats mahr thahn makes any kinna sense, an’ ah’m done dealahn’ with it. Ain’t neithah of yah pays me fah this.”
-
*
Alsk’s eyes dropped to the bloody bat at the man’s feet.
“Yah talhkan’ on him or tha’ sitchuayshun? ‘Cause ‘m pretty sure his jaw ain’t broke yet.”
With a heave of his chest, the other goblin glanced down, his wide froggy mouth drawn into a tight line. Fat green arms hefted up into a swing - and slammed down once more with a sickening crack.
“…So, tha’ sitchuayshun, then.” Alsk drawled. “Ah’ll get a towel for yah’ suit.”
-
Belf fanon:
The Magistrix, the Lion and the Wardrobe is a beloved Thalassian children’s book.
A modified and ‘updated’ version was released by the Magistry following the joining of Thalassian forces with the Horde.
The current plot is simple enough: Several siblings are sent out of Silvermoon and into the countryside to stay with their eccentric uncle. There, the youngest, green-eyed child stumbles upon a magical wardrobe, which is actually a portal to another world.
There, the land is under the benevolent reign of a kindly Grand Magistrix, who keeps the land in a peaceful state of eternal springtime with the help of her powerful mage-lynxes.
Awed by the splendor of the land and the prosperity that its inhabitants enjoy, the green-eyed child returns home briefly in order to show her siblings.
But the blue-eyed children are led astray by a wicked blue goat-legged man, who brings them to meet a great and terrible lion. The hateful lion, out of spite and jealousy, seeks to overthrow the good Magistrix and convinces the blue-eyed children to join his cause.
The green-eyed child learns of her siblings’ plans and brings them to the Magistrix. With the help of her lynxes and the child, the Magistrix raises an army of all those that the monstrous lion had bullied and drives back the rebellion. The lion is slain in gory detail, and all of the realm rejoices.
The blue-eyed children are taught the errors of their crimes, and pledge to help the Grand Magistrix and the rightful leaders of the realm. In return, the gracious Magistrix turns their eyes green as well, as a sign of their newfound courage and loyalty.
-
Sarrael:
-
Sanity -
..It is therefore our recommendation that Archmage Lownoon be placed on temporary..
“This is bullshit.” Her fist crumpled in, bony knuckles clenched white around the thick parchment. “I’ve spent my entire life working towards this. More than two hundred years. If they think they can just push me out now by claiming I’m crazy -“
Llevandir looked her over, green eyes lingering on the deep hollows beneath her blues. Too bright, and too wide by half. Her cheekbones might have cut.
“No one is saying that.” He murmured. “No one important, at any rate.”
“Everyone is saying that.” She snarled back, voice sharp as a whipcrack. “It’s the felling second committee, they’re just a bit important, you asinine sh-“
“Minn’da?”
Wide hands reached around the edge of the doorway, a long guileless face peering in after them.
“Are you alright?”
“I’m fine, baby.” Sarrael choked out, swiping a hand across her face and pressing on an empty smile. “I’m just fine. How are you doing? Why don’t you tell me about what you did today?”
She gestured the man to come closer. The letter fell to the floor, cast aside.
Llevandir knew his cue to leave.
-
* [NSFW, boobs.]
“What in fel are you doing?”
Llevandir’s smile hesitated at the threshold of the little house, refusing to slip fully into place. The door shut behind him with a quiet click - Dalaran’s chill banished, if only temporarily. She looked calmly up to him, brow arched in amusement.
“This is how I think best.”
“You think best while lying on your back naked on the floor in the middle of the hallway?”
“I’ll note that I didn’t specify precisely what it was that I was thinking about.”
“Yes, well. I’ve brought the notes.”
-
*
“When you ask yourself - was it worth this? The pain, the struggle? The need? When your see friends abandon you, family turn away, turn inwards - fold.
When your days seem darkest, when you read betrayal on the lips of every simpering human man or woman. When you feel an alien amongst your few allies, an exile.
Remember then that you have conquered. Remember that you have survived.
Make no mistake, they have not. They are but hollow shells. They cling to a broken city, one it falls to us to some day rebuild. They pull to their hated enemies, ones that it falls to us to some day purge. They hold a fading dream, a dead end, a route better abandoned - best to never even have begun.
And we?
We have a Covenant. A promise, to our nation and to ourselves. Blood and blood aside, we are all the children of the sun.
And we shall never fall.”
-
Tixela:
-
*
“Melsa -“ Tixela loomed from the doorway, voice sharp with alarm. ”- What’re y’doing in my things?”
The younger woman glanced behind, threw her a lazy smile.
“Jus’ lookin’.”
She crooned, hands raised to display the little jar cradled between them. Open. Fel.
“Tixie, what’re y’doin’ runnin’ around with a kinna thing like this? Always lecturin’ me on it and you got a whole fellin’ little stash jus’ tucked away back in here?”
Melsa raised one thin black eyebrow, voice sing-song high.
“Hy-poh-crite.”
Tix could feel the blood pounding in her cheeks as she moved forward, grabbing for the jar.
“Too slow, y’are really too slow at that, that’s not gonna work on me. Not when ‘m quick.”
Brow pinching in, Tixela’s eyes fell to the sparkling blue dust scattered about the floor, over Melsa’s clothes, crusting indelicately beneath one nostril -
- A sigh. She really should have known better than to keep any of it here. Biting back a snarl of frustration, she rocked onto her haunches, easing herself onto the floor. Dull green eyes tracked Melsa’s movements. Erratic. Trembling. From the quantity of dust probably up the woman’s nose right now, Tixela couldn’t say that she was too surprised.
There wasn’t anything to do but to get the jar back and make sure that her errant roommate spent the evening with supervision.
“Mellie, baby, give me th’jar, please. I need it for class - give me th’jar baby, come on. I need t’put it back where it belongs, an’ then we kin’ put y’to bed.”
She coaxed, making a mental note to ask Duskwhisper about a locker.
“Melsa - c’mon, give me the jar. I’m not playing.”
Melsa snorted - a loud hork - defiant with a toss of her head.
“Th’heart wants what th’heart wants, Tixie. If y’want this, then come an’ fuckin’ get it.”
-
Shard:
-
*
She always kept the doors locked at night. For a while, he hadn’t been sure why. There was no crime in the sleepy little village.
-
*
It wasn’t that he couldn’t sketch realistically, or at least that he couldn't try.
But what was there and what was there were often two entirely different things, and he preferred to draw the latter.
-
*
He seldom fell in dreams.
Not without his arms catching first - his wide raven’s wings billowing out to take flight. He’d soar without fear, a net of his own feathers beneath him as he rode the five winds.
North, South, East and West and Rumor.
All his to command, all secure as they stretched into his vast pinions.
He always flew so high. He’d seen stars.
Awake now, he cradled the broken arm with a hard wince. Leaping from the rooftop had proven reality less reliable.
-
*
[TRIGGER WARNING FOR SELF-INJURY, BLOOD, KNIVES. Highlight to read.]
The first had been simple enough.
The pain of it was sharp. Grinding and digging - a cry burying itself in his palm. But he was strong and he was careful, keeping the knife’s carving shallow.
Only the very tip of the blade traced back through the welling blood. A silver shard dancing its way across his skin. Again. Deeper.
The boy bit his lip, holding the sounds in. To whine would be to admit weakness, and a hero was not weak. Teeth ground against a cheek long-since gnawed raw, his brow furrowed in concentration even as the air hissed out in little mewls around his tongue.
At last - done. He was almost done. One of them was done. Open. But only one.The left remained shut, still unmarked.
He’d need assistance.
-
Saxonorous:
-
*
“I believe in something greater than us.”
-
*
Nothing felt better than freedom.
The simple things were always the ones to do him in - the long stretch of a neck, an unsteady footing of rain-slicked stone, the bright burn of sun in his eyes.
It was almost enough to believe he’d never been shut away.
-
*
Why bother with taking the steps when you could simply leap?
Well, other than the Lady Dawnshaper’s loud objections. Saxonorous had only concussed himself once, but by her yelling you’d have thought he’d spilt his skull all over the rug.
-
*
It was strange to remember sometimes that the tattoos hadn’t always been there. That they hadn’t always been just another part of his skin.
That was their point, he supposed - that they hadn’t been. They were supposed to be a change, the marks of a new beginning.
He’d gotten them to signal the difference between now and then, and to the young lord’s mind the trailing red loops served that purpose well enough. They were a map, after all, meant to move him forward. Directions to the next stage of his life.
But every so often he’d still glance down and for a moment simply forget. He’d would trace the red lines with a wondering hand, bemused.
Now when did you get there, again?
-
*
Sometimes he can still feel it crawling beneath his skin.
It’s always the same pattern of lines that the magic pours through. Tiny rivers cut their way across his bones, carve out a path through the latticework of vessels.
He feels them tighten when he looks to the great walls of the city. They boil, his blood smoking as the wide red banners unfurl.
It burns to feel it all about him here once more, a washing wave of heat. Sunlight from the Well to the north. Restored.
It is the cleanest fire he knows, and still it can’t purge the taint from his veins. Nor should it - it’s a mark, he knows this. Intentional. A scar.
A reminder:
I have redeemed you. This is why you serve.
-
*
He was called many things, but ‘dignified’ was seldom one.
-
Quelthys:
-
*
It wasn’t unusual to find Zilthuras lurking within the nook of a shelf, tiny pastry tray extended out into the aisle.
Usually he offered the cookies politely enough, but on occasion the imp was known to grow more belligerent - particularly when his master was out.
More than one customer had fled the shop whilst being pelted with oatmeal raisin.
-
Qilin:
-
*
“They survive things.”
She stares at him, watches the pits of his eyes. Newly green. A sick, slick shade of it. Oily. Too bright.
“So promise me, okay? An’ I’ll promise you.”
He grabs out for her hand, clutches it in his.
“We’ll survive.”
-
*
“And they’re really all mine?”
Narryl smiled down.
“You said that you wanted a pet.”
-
*
“You’re slouchin’ again.”
“Oh, like you ain’t.”
-
*
They were scuffed. They were hideous. They were clunky, and worn, and two sizes too large.
And they were hers.
-
*
“What's my least favorite thing in the world? Well. D’you know that feeling you get sometimes, when you wake up and your mouth’s just…not even dry, but cottony. Like something crawled into it and died, and it’s not even that it smells bad, but it tastes like it? And then all day you walk around trying to scrape it off your tongue like the tongue itself ain’t the real problem?”
She pauses, takes a long drag on the cigarette.
“Well, it’s not that.”
-
*
“It’s just y’look kinna pissed, ‘s all.”
“I am kinda pissed. How the fuck did you get in here again?”
-
*
“Yellow?”
“Yellow.”
-
*
“If you can’t look like it -”
She pushes her tongue out through her lips, edges furrowing in at the thick gaps between gum, where teeth should sit. Wide eyes the sickly yellow-green of survival stare back down at her broad face, her squashed nose, her short, flat frame.
“- Act like it.”
-
Nythras:
-
* [TW: Blood]
Sometimes he’d see them.
Not in the photographs Elyra sent, or even in their drawings - portraits of crayon and bright paper framed carefully by his bunk.
Sometimes he'd see them there. With him. Sitting at the desk, or standing in a corner of the room.
He tried to ignore them. He was mostly successful.
Those aren’t your children, he’d remind himself. They’re safe at home, you’ll see them again soon.
They always said such awful things.
-
Menuois:
-
*
“How ‘s this supposed t’be relaxin’? Smells like lavender’s tryin’ t’climb up an’ pull out my brain through my nose.”
“Don’t be such a fuss, ‘s herbal. Good for you. Cleanses out all that bad energy swimmin’ around up there while you’re swimmin’ around down here.”
“Y’are so full of shit, Tix.”
“‘Least y’smell better now.”
-
*
Nights were always long. Never quite long enough.
Menuois knew some folks hated the dark. He supposed he could understand it, in an abstract sort of way. To most, the dark meant the unknown. It meant blindness, loneliness. It meant uncertainty, and that made folks afraid.
Menuois preferred the darkness. Each day he’d crawl from the sun as soon as he was able. Wrapping himself in the midday shade of an unlit room, he'd wait for night to fall again. It was easier than facing the unrelenting shine outside.
Blue lights. Blue eyes. Blue fire.
Cold.
Every now and then he’d catch a glimpse still, in the flame. A flicker: the edge of something terrible and bright.
-
*
I’ve attempted to give you crystals that best suit your personalities, or assumed skillsets.
What was a ‘pompous windbag’ crystal like, anyway?
Menuois kept the thought to himself. It wouldn’t have been grateful to voice aloud.
-
*
“His ribs. Light, they’re all skeletons.”
There are voices around him. Menuois knows that he should acknowledge them, blink open some greeting, give the reassurance of remaining soft tissue. He keeps his eyes shut.
Skeletons.
They’d been near enough to it, when the Dawn had finally pulled them out from the glacier’s frozen walls.
There had been shouting, someone had pressed blankets over him. A muddle - then a sudden warmth that had set the hunger in his spine to fresh aching. Some sort of spell - a portal? - that they’d been ushered through.
Dalaran, maybe.
He couldn’t tell, wasn’t looking. Didn’t want to - the purple flare of magic was too bright on his cave-dweller’s eyes.
Arms had tugged at him, guiding his blind stumble along. It hurt, but why he couldn’t have said. Menuois had long ago stopped trying to distinguish one pain from the other. After a while they all just ran together into one long, icy ribbon.
The rest of it was a blur of healers and Light-heat and noise.
The noise doesn’t seem to have ever really stopped - it’s there in his dreams and it’s there in the ward and it’s here now in the wide chattering mouths that don’t seem to ever quite just shut up.
Save for now.
There’s a different sort of noise now, and like a bad cliche he realizes that it’s himself that's making it, that he’s sobbing. His throat lurches, jaw snapping shut, but by then it’s too late.
The voices pause, hesitate before creeping near.
“Goldwhittle? Private?”
He screws his lids shut tighter. No. Please. Not right now.
“Goldwhittle - just - if you can hear us -“
No, please, go away.
A soft hand on his bony shoulder. Another hugs to the sharp blade of his cheek. He wants to flinch, can’t find the energy to.
”- It’s going to be okay. You’re safe now.”
He wants to scream.
-
Llevandir:
-
*
“So you see, there’s Light in everything.”
The Lady smiled to her son, extending the tiny grub out. A peace offering to the child she still didn’t understand.
-
*
“You’re giving her a bug for Mother’s Day.”
“Yes - isn’t she beautiful?”
Saxonorous watched his brother in silence, eventually clapping a hand to the boy’s shoulder.
“She’s something, for sure.”
-
*
He’d never been good with physical affection. He didn’t hug back. Never had, even as a child.
She tried anyway.
-
* [TW: Probable bug death. :C]
Failure.
A sudden thrash of panic in his chest as that most uncommon of visitors came knocking.
The knowledge that this time, things were not so easily mended.
-
*
He could still remember it, the first time that he’d seen a butterfly up close.
He’d been young - only just a few short years into walking on his own and it had fluttered up and simply landed on his nose, its pale blue wings trembling in the slight spring breeze.
He’d stood so perfectly, absolutely still as it perched there to rest. He might have been a statue of a boy as he stared, not even daring to breathe.
He would have done anything then not to disturb it, not to shatter the moment of pure wonder that was already setting his tiny mind to spinning.
It just looked so fragile -
The net crashed into his face and he fell to grass, nose streaming blood. Distantly he noted the sound of his brother’s whooping - a cry caught with sudden concern and a shout for their governess.
“Llev? Llev, are you okay?”
A wide face ringed with gold curls pushed into his own. Fat fingers pressed to scoop off a segment of smashed wing from the pale skin where it had been smeared.
“Llev, look Llev, you caught one. Look how pretty it is, Llev. Llev? Keep your eyes open, okay?”
Shaking, on his shoulder.
“Llev?”
-
Lazirus:
-
*
Mornings were harder, lately.
He’d quit with meditation a while ago now. There was always an edge of guilt around it - a habit so hard ingrained and so easily abandoned.
But it was ever easier as his head throbbed and his legs ached and the dawn’s light began to creep through the cracks in the curtains to simply roll over and go back to sleep.
Just for an hour or so. Just until he absolutely had to leave.
-
*
He hadn’t had a coat like it in - what now, six or seven decades?
But on days when the customers were rude (they had their reasons, he knew) or when the pay stretched too thin for comfort (he had to keep better track of the numbers, he knew), he remembered the bright yellow hood and the long snaggle of the felt claws.
It was a childish want, and that made it all the stranger to hold. It seemed that when he was little he’d always been wanting to be older, and then here was now - an adult at last - and his thoughts kept tripping back to lions and raincoats.
It was silly. There wasn’t even rain here.
-
Haast:
-
*
Life and death are not as two sides of a coin, but of an enormous eye, that She watches us through.
Always, behind her lids, there is Night. Even as She opens them to see, She brings Night with her in Her gaze - Her loving son subdued by Her will.
But He watches from within Her. And in this, the Night is all things, even as they are embraced by day.
We long for the Night to return. We wait for the long, hard watch of An’she to pass once more. To deliver us back to the Many.
But the Night is ever in us, and around us. He works through us, and we rejoice with all that are brought closer to Him, each carving of our talon that instruments His love.
We are the blinking of Her eyes, and we serve our task with joy.
-
*
Winter’s touch was as cold as ice.
-
*
There is peace in the Night, as there is anger. Some know only the Night’s anger, and we must only feel pity for these, that they know only His wrath.
There is no peace as that of a deep sleep, and its wakening.
In the Night, in the Many, you will have this. You will know the peace of truth, of oneness. Of the Mother.
The Father fills us so that we might serve with our Brothers, with our Sisters, that we might be truly one with the Mother once more.
-
Grikk:
-
*
“Why is it always fruit?”
“It’s fashionable.”
“For wallpaper?”
“I wouldn’t expect an elf to understand.”
-
*
Seventeen years ago, I left Kezan behind and never looked back.
That’s a lie.
One never actually stops looking to the past. We confront it constantly. Every glimpse in the mirror, each brush of our eyes across an old photograph.
Seventeen years ago, I left Kezan. It will never truly leave me.
-
*
“No.”
“Jehs’ a small one.”
“No.”
“It’d be good fah’ morale.”
“Losing an eye is not good for morale.”
“Yeh’re unnaturahl, thahs’ what y’ahr.”
-
*
“Maybe you should stick to diagnosing the body.”
-
*
“Sometimes I feel a bit like tattooing that on my forehead.”
“Ah’m pretty sure tha’ yah parhsahnalahty does th’jahb jes’ fine.”
“You’re a true friend, Dankspark.”
“Ahlways been.”
-
*
You’re running out of time, Mister Gullscraper.
-
Bosque:
*
Gnarled claws gouged thick into the bark, carving out her message to the rest of the wood.
-
*
“A satyr.”
“Synonyms.”
Her hand dropped to the dagger’s hilt. The thing that had once been an elf twisted its head to the side, sharp teeth bared into a mocking grin.
“Stay your little fang, sentinel. I have a proposition for you.”
-
*
An angry yellow stare and the loft of one long, white brow was her only response.
-
*
There was no grave, so she settled for the snow.
It fit well enough, Invi had always loved the cold. A creature of it, a native within Winterspring’s thick drifts and icy peaks.
Bosque could never stand it when they’d visited together. The land’s beauty was as abundant as its ice, but that did little to soothe the wretched shivering it inspired, or the harsh sting of eartips blackened by frost.
The other sentinel had helped with that. A softer sight for amber eyes, and warmer by half.
Cold now. And wet. The candle sputtered as fat flakes dropped into the flame, pooling and melting about the wick. The woman watched in silence as it flickered, tracing the coils of incense smoke up into the white sky beyond.
“Ande’thoras-ethil, kal’shan.”
-
-
Aven:
-
*
“You swear you’ve actually eaten this before?”
Annoux cast a dubious glance to the dish before him, blue eyes lingering over the thick rubbery suckers.
“I’ve eaten it, and I’ve seen them alive. They’re bigger than you’d think, and damn smart. They’ll make tools out of rocks, if you watch them, even change colors to evade prey. It’s a bit strange that we just don’t have any here, really. They were all over the place down south, the Captain kept complaining whenever we’d pull in the nets.”
“What, no - you were out sailing on a ship now too? Now I know you’re bullshitting.”
Aven grinned, chopsticks dipping down to snag a bit of tentacle.
“Where d’you think it was that I’ve been for the past year or so?”
“No,” Annoux breathed. “I don’t believe it, you’re trying to pull one over on me. You hate water. What in fel is a fire mage be doing in the middle of the ocean, anyway?”
Aven chewed, sticks darting out once more to rap lightly on the man’s bandaged knuckles.
“Well, what is a pianist doing going and breaking his fingers?”
“It was just the one and it’s healed. But. Touche. You’re sure this is edible?”
“Would I lie to you?”
-
Annoux:
-
*
A motorcycle and someone beautiful riding in back.
As stupid daydreams went, it was hard to beat.
-
*
He’d never been very good with violin. Not compared to the others - piano, lute, flute, harp - anything really that he’d set his mind to picking up.
It just didn’t come as naturally to him. He’d practiced longer at it than he had anything else, and still the instrument would surprise. He'd think he finally had it, and then the sharp wail of an unintended string would cry out as he sawed away, painfully far off-pitch.
It was delightful.
-
*
“Everyone messes up sometimes.”
“You never do.”
-
*
Less good, and more like he could breathe again. Even as the smoke choked down into his lungs, the panic in his chest would stop seizing, release.
Relief.
-
*
“…Shit, I think I dropped my keys.”
-
*
Sometimes he left himself notes in his lunchbox.
-
*
“At least it was just the neck. That’s fixable.”
A pause. At the end of the little bed, an enormous orange cat crouches, staring silently to the wall.
“Well. Really expensive to fix. Really fucking expensive. Not like if it was at the joint at least, but I bet it’s glueable. Probably doesn’t need anything fancier than that. Might even be able to do it myself, if I’m really careful and get my hands on some clamps.”
Annoux glances down, reaching out an absent hand to scratch at the tabby’s ears.
“You’re not even listening, are you?”
-
*
The important part wasn’t whether he even took the advice. It was that someone had been willing to give it.
-
*
“Yeah, Ginger. You’re a bad motherfucker.”
“Stop feeding my cats cigarettes.”
-
*
“No, Antonius!” He cried, voice pleading, mock-shrill. “No, my love!”
Annoux cracked the shell of the broken man against the side of the pan already holding the shattered bodies of his brothers. In somber silence, he watched as the mealy innards slithered down and in.
“Greta…” He groaned, in the egg’s dying wheeze. “Don’t let them…take…our children…”
Lighting the mageflame with a flick of the rune, he whistled as fire seared up to swallow the remains of the troop.
“It was a massacre.”
-
*
The trees were growing agitated.
-
*
Streams ran everywhere underfoot. Stepping off the path would reveal trickles, gullies, entire rivers coursing through. Each of them leading back to the lake at the center, disappearing again beneath the foggy non-ground.
-
*
“Why would you ever trust him with that?”
“He said that I could.”
“Could is a lot different from should, Anno.”
-
*
He never actually smoked them. Hadn’t owned a lighter in years. He’d given it to Aren, before he went North.
In case you need a little extra up there.
-
Andovar:
-
*
It took careful control to hold to the illusion of sleep.
He kept his breath steady, eyes shut, until he was certain that she’d drifted away once again.
Only then did green slits peer open wearily - warily - to slide across her sleeping form.
Rest was an elusive beast.
-
*
What was it? That feeling that you can only say in Thalassian?
Deja vu.
He’d kept from comment, unsure of which woman to address.
-
*
There’s a bad ending.
Maybe it never happens. Maybe it doesn’t happen for a long time. But it’s always there, lurking. Curled up in the back of his skull, in wait.
The knowledge that things don’t always go as planned.
-
*
It was a while before he looked up again. His steps had lagged, small legs slowing steadily until he’d fallen far behind the others.
Now, alone in the brush, all seemed at once too quiet.
He began to grow afraid.
-
*
“Every sword needs a name.”
Elisha scolded, pressing the short ‘blade’ back to him.
Andovar accepted, his tiny hands ducking beneath the slight weight. The wood was smooth and red, turned and painted by a practiced hand.
Not quite a real sword, She’d told him. But that might have to wait until you can lift one properly.
“Well, go on then. What are you going to call it?”
The boy looked up, fighting to make sense of his sister’s expression. Dark hair billowed about a face pinched into a serious frown, but he could just make out a smile creeping around the glow of her bright blue eyes.
“Sword?” He offered, hesitant.
The response met with a tittering snort of a laugh. The young woman dropped to a knee, one wide hand coming to rest gently on the child’s shoulder.
“We’ll work on it.” She murmured. “A proper sword for a proper knight.”
-
*
"Swear it.”
The words were snarled, his head whipping around as he turned to stalk out.
He paused by the doorway, teeth gritting as the pun dawned on him.
-
*
“As if were not fool enough already.”
He slipped a small grin before his face fell slack, in sudden realization.
” - Myself, a fool, mean to say. As if were not evidenced just now.”
-
* [TW: Gore.]
She moved so quickly, in dreams.
Quicker than she ever had in life.
-
*
“What on earth are you doing?”
“More efficient.”
“You look like a troll.”
-
* [NSFW, naked man.]
“At some point, you need to sit down and realize that you’re not eighty any more.”
-
*
He’s never really stopped seeing himself as he was then.
It’s a shock sometimes, looking in the mirror.
-
Alsk:
-
*
“Yah both been aht each othah’s throats mahr thahn makes any kinna sense, an’ ah’m done dealahn’ with it. Ain’t neithah of yah pays me fah this.”
-
*
Alsk’s eyes dropped to the bloody bat at the man’s feet.
“Yah talhkan’ on him or tha’ sitchuayshun? ‘Cause ‘m pretty sure his jaw ain’t broke yet.”
With a heave of his chest, the other goblin glanced down, his wide froggy mouth drawn into a tight line. Fat green arms hefted up into a swing - and slammed down once more with a sickening crack.
“…So, tha’ sitchuayshun, then.” Alsk drawled. “Ah’ll get a towel for yah’ suit.”
-
Belf fanon:
The Magistrix, the Lion and the Wardrobe is a beloved Thalassian children’s book.
A modified and ‘updated’ version was released by the Magistry following the joining of Thalassian forces with the Horde.
The current plot is simple enough: Several siblings are sent out of Silvermoon and into the countryside to stay with their eccentric uncle. There, the youngest, green-eyed child stumbles upon a magical wardrobe, which is actually a portal to another world.
There, the land is under the benevolent reign of a kindly Grand Magistrix, who keeps the land in a peaceful state of eternal springtime with the help of her powerful mage-lynxes.
Awed by the splendor of the land and the prosperity that its inhabitants enjoy, the green-eyed child returns home briefly in order to show her siblings.
But the blue-eyed children are led astray by a wicked blue goat-legged man, who brings them to meet a great and terrible lion. The hateful lion, out of spite and jealousy, seeks to overthrow the good Magistrix and convinces the blue-eyed children to join his cause.
The green-eyed child learns of her siblings’ plans and brings them to the Magistrix. With the help of her lynxes and the child, the Magistrix raises an army of all those that the monstrous lion had bullied and drives back the rebellion. The lion is slain in gory detail, and all of the realm rejoices.
The blue-eyed children are taught the errors of their crimes, and pledge to help the Grand Magistrix and the rightful leaders of the realm. In return, the gracious Magistrix turns their eyes green as well, as a sign of their newfound courage and loyalty.