#Mordalia Bala'thustraes | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

for-peace-war · 7 years ago

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[Mordalia] - “Legacies”

[ I decided to write a little introductory piece for my high elf mage in @mcsars Warcraft/Pathfinder game. It’s been so long since I seriously wrote something but it felt great to try it out again! Falendra Silvervale belongs to @diermina, Nathaniel Grimm is @lordcaliginous, and Rosalie Carling [the witch] is @perfectperfidy. Also, a very small mention of @jessiphile and her character, Renalus Duskhallow.

Thanks for reading, if you do! ]

FALENDRA SILVERVALE WAS TOO CLEVER FOR HER OWN GOOD. It had been well on past five decades since Magistrix Mordalia Bala’thustraes had set foot in her native Quel’thalas, but the fleeting memories of a girl had never imagined a farstrider half as impudent nor vaguely as difficult. It had been nearly a month since they had departed from Dalaran (or more accurately, 3 weeks, 5 days, and four hours to that moment – a figure Mordalia relied upon to remain sane at times) and in truth, she had her fill of the woman’s mannerisms by the time they had made little more than the first day and a half. In contentious silence did they travel often, though even that was something that she found vexing and swift to set her mood from mildly perturbed to outright distraught. Who did she think she was? What gave her the right to behave in so baseless a manner?

The problem was, Mordalia had come to recognize, that Falendra was more often than not silent. It was not the pensive silence of a scholar studying a strange object to that point unseen, for she would have readily accepted and understood that without complaint. After all, she was the very same Mordalia Bala’thustraes that had achieved success during the Ballad of the Stars when she was just on fifteen years of age – that had been able to manipulate hearts and minds with a voice she so loathed to share that since then she had not lifted it to a note above the mundane. No, she did not like to sing: she found it a vestige of a legacy she wished to leave far behind her, yet all the same the woman might well have done her to courtesy of allowing her to deny her the request to hear her. Yet there was more to her misgiving than that – more to it than the absence of verbal comment. Falendra seemed neither admiring nor interested in her unique ability. She cared little, it seemed, for the fact that but a girl had used her voice to challenge the state of things: that a child had forced her way into a prestigious household with a begrudgingly gifted voice.

If truth be told, it seemed as though she cared little for anything. And that was what vexed her most of all.

In passing, and if only for a moment, perhaps she had allowed a musical sigh to leave her when they were forced into closer quarters. It was nothing too extravagant of course, for whyever would that horrid woman deserve to hear the luster that was her unchecked and undesired prowess in vocal and aural sensation? The cabins were not at all cramped, yet the silence that existed between them was enough to fill every cubic inch of space between them with a sort of tension that proved viscous as fog and heavy as the water that thudded against the ship’s sides. That note, but a whisper of the majesty that her voice might have commanded, should have recalled her to the woman’s mind immediately. Perhaps she was shy or did not know how to approach the topic, for those of Dalaran were certainly mysterious and a woman accustomed to but leaves and acorns and the sound of lynxes rutting in wooded enclosures could have known little of civility and class, yet even for that Falendra did not appear too terribly concerned. Her eyes, more green than blue, had been fixated upon the wall across from her at most times if not hidden behind her heavy lids. Her ears rarely twitched without purpose, and Mordalia’s subtle (though quite becoming) affectations did not in the slightest rouse that from her. She was irksome. Loathsome. But most of all she was silent – so damnably silent

Was it something that she had learned while stalking her prey? Was it the legacy of belonging to the Silvervale family, whatever level of backwater pirate and lowly merchant that may have been? Mordalia had never spoken to a Silvervale of any note, she was certain, and she had spoken to a great many elves of good importance and high society (in hindsight, she had determined it would be best to investigate her more thoroughly when time permitted). More likely than not hers was a story dependent on the charity of some amorous sort or a sod that had fallen in love with her handsome features and been left wanting for the cruelty in her black heart. Was that why she was so quiet? Was it shame?

Mordalia was close to being certain of that fact. Well, close enough but not quite certain. There were other reasons for reticence after all.

Students could be quiet as well, she knew. As an instructor and adjunct professor in spellweaving and crafting, she had worked alongside some of the most prestigious of arcane disciplinarians. From the unconventional plotting (and some might say, madness) of Alonysus Dawnveil to the theoretical masterpieces of Renalus Duskhallow, she had experienced the somewhat baffling force the presence of one’s wit and intellect might have had upon their inferiors. Through force of personality had she managed to shed those feelings when discourse was required with her own professors, and she knew well in time that neonates and young practitioners spoke more easily to her than those of senior position in the magocracy, so perhaps – just perhaps – Falendra’s silence was something less scholarly and more studently in nature. After all, apprehension was a natural thing to experience if forced away from the squalor of troll huts and dragonhawk rookeries. For some she was approachable and easily spoken to, but they had come to understand and appreciate the extensive knowledge that their kind loved to share. Had she a question to ask her, then Mordalia would have readily and rapidly enlightened her companion’s state.

But she had asked her nothing. She had not so much as looked at her once they were settled. That left her cross. That left her irritated. This was no student at all. She was but an imbecile.

“It is a wonder Quel’thalas saw fit to assign one of its farstriders to a wayward child such as I,” Mordalia had once commented with little effort to mask how important the distinction was for Falendra. Mayhap if they could move swiftly beyond the tedium of formality then she would allow herself to be more easily spoken to as was appropriate.

But Falendra had remained silent, so silent in fact, that Mordalia was nearly motivated to repeat herself (for fear the woman was as slow as she was mute), when she answered her sharply. “Is it.” There was no interrogative – no inquisitiveness. Falendra’s words were as carefully chosen and effortlessly shared with her as had been her silence to that point. Perhaps it is a mystery to you, she was surely saying, but however could it be one to me?

That level of arrogance was all too much for her! Mordalia went silent. Mordalia turned to her books. Mordalia fumed with words that would never be spoken.

It bothered her, more than anything else, that the silence between them was not her property. Falendra decided its presence and as time went on, Falendra would determine when it ended – or so she believed. Without word had she erected barriers and left barricades between them. The ground was staked out and the lanes between them lain with witticisms and quips. Should ever that foul woman think to share word with her again then it would be in a conflagration of pure intellect and biting sarcasm that she was answere, for Mordalia knew well her worth and the genius that belonged to her. Perhaps she would never be able to track a murloc through the marsh at night, but then she would never need to do such a thing. She won her battles before they had begun. She was a wit – an academic.

As the cold war of attritive quietude expanded, Mordalia turned her attention toward her books and more importantly what might be considered prudent within them. It had been three years since the Dark Portal was closed and the Alliance knew victory over the Orcish Horde. Three years in which great reforms and changes had occurred, though none quite enough to sate the anger of those afflicted by the brutes. Quel’thalas was yet scarred and the northern kingdoms had committed life and land to see what eventually became a holding pen for their defilers. In Dalaran the debates had turned hot and vicious, with many feeling that the fundamental nature of the problem before them was a philosophical one: if members of Race M were incapable of knowing redemption and retribution was considered cruel, then how might Races A and C properly maintain their own inner good while at the same time protecting that of others?

Some did not care. Some ventured Race M should be eradicated. More specifically, that black blood should spill. While that seemed an empty suggestions to Mordalia, it was less troubling than rumors of what might have been happening within those internment camps. As an academic though, she did not think to question mere speculation and rumor – and certainly, she did not allow her views to be altered by either.

But there were more concrete things than that to think of. In her possessions there remained a letter from a young mage named Morgan, whose insistence that she be serious in her investigation into the disappearance of Kel’Thuzad and his party on their examination of the archmage Medivh’s domain in Karazhan had irritated her. The letter had been as unnecessary as it was confusing and more importantly, horribly offensive. That she had been handed the assignment of such paramount importance had been a sign of trust from the Council of Six, what did some cloying lackwit whose interests could be summed as infatuation have to say that she could not have determined on her own? It was a puzzling sentiment and more importantly, an exasperating one. For she knew where it had come from – she knew why her mission was so very important and why more than half of Dalaran wished to see her fail.

It had been a young, impetuous student by the name of Millicent Manamaximus who stood no taller than her knee but had eyes larger than most people’s hands, that first brought the matter to light before her. Millicent’s people were naturally inquisitive, she had come to recognize, and more importantly had little in the way of social grace or acumen. “With the rapidity of human procreation and aptitude with the arcane,” she puzzled aloud and in the small gathering they had formed, “how long do you suppose it is before elven magic becomes a legacy of academic interest and little else?” The apprentice wished for some statistical affirmation, she was certain, and yet the question immediately had deprived the room of a great deal of its wind. Could the nature of her people be so easily qualified?

In a world where Race E was progressing too slowly to outpace Race H, would Race E eventually become extinct or redundant? It had been the elves that taught humans, barely capable of dressing themselves and speaking coherent sentences, of what it meant to channel the arcane. A human asking the question would have been ridiculed, but the flesh-bound automaton that was a gnome could not help but posit a logical quandary as it appeared before her.

She had no answer for her then. She certainly had no answer for her now.

Prince Kael’thas Sunstrider, who served as a beacon of elven supremacy if ever there was one, had spoken briefly with her on the matter. She recalled the day fondly (for she had an excellent memory and was predisposed to such feats of retentive veracity) and recorded it but with a few dozen pages in her personal writings and memoirs. Naturally, all that came from Quel’thalas wished to speak with the prince – and many did, for he was a magnanimous and gregarious person. To exist within the same room as him was as though to be touched by Belore’s warmth, and though Mordalia had been certain not to appear too fawning she was quite certain she might well have indicated she found his personage impressive and quite grand. How many, she wondered, could have said that they spoke to him, truly? Most were caught in his radiance and merely filled with his triumphant allure. But to talk to him: to engage him. Oh, it was an opportunity so many failed to seize upon readily.

A woman of lesser intellect and propriety might have even become infatuated. In the moment of recollection, Mordalia felt the heat of embarrassment for such women wash over her and could not help but fend off the nascence of a chuckle. How foolish they were indeed. How trivial!

But the golden prince, whose voice was as clear as it was mellifluous, spoke with frank distinction (and earnest candor) to her in those few minutes. “We are a people rare gifted in this life,” had he remarked idly, “for our legacy is writ at a time when we might yet appreciate it. Think of the father that witnesses his son’s triumphs. Think of the farmer that discovers the bounty reaped was far greater than what had been sewn.” No, there was no struggle for supremacy between elf and human. Nor would there ever need to be.

“Young women such as yourself ensure that, magistrix,” he had added in Thalassian. She knew that she said something in return – something that had earned a wry smile from him and left her quite certain that he respected her entirely for the exchange. Oh, indeed, how very foolish a woman would have been to fall in love with that royal scion.

“You are flushed,” Falendra said then and drew her mind away from her thoughts. Mordalia, with traps lain, did not think to spring them just then. Instead, she muttered a cross “No,” and resumed her writing. When next Falendra spoke to her, she would have her.

Just then, it was the matter of spellcasting that reigned within her mind.

It had been in writing on that matter that she committed herself to pass the time as Falendra did all manner of things that did not involve her. Elven spellcasting was finesse and grace – it was attuned to a key that no human could possibly master. Indeed, the human sphere of magic was one of raw power and aptitude, but a cannon could only be used in certain circumstances. There was something to be appreciated, after all, for the finer quality of precision and accuracy. In the hands of elves, magic was a fluid and entrancing song. When manipulated by humans, it was a club. How could one hope to light the path of discovery, after all, if they could not light a simple candle with their magic? It had been that question that she ended her thoughts on as the boat arrived in Stormwind – that thought that accompanied her when Falendra finally spoke to her once more.

“Be careful when you depart. Your equilibrium may have been shifted.” It was neither callous nor chiding, and though Falendra did not act to aid her in anything she nevertheless did hold the door for her when they were to leave. In an instant, the many clever comments and derisive quips she had prepared were lost in the sudden blink of her eyes. Her very beautiful and violet and quite rare eyes, of course – not at all like that sordid green. Yes, that was something she could have mentioned. It was something she would have mentioned, but as she gathered her things there seemed no appropriate time for it and so she departed without more than a muted sentiment of gratitude.

How impossibly contemptuous that farstrider was.

“Nathaniel Grimm is to be found in Grand Hamlet,” Mordalia said when they had finally risen free of their cabin and found shore once more. Stormwind was a recovering city, still pained by the invasion of the orcs but with people that had not given up on their homes. Humans, if nothing else, were resourceful. Faintly, Mordalia wondered what it would mean if they had been given more freedom to manipulate the future. Would the brilliance of elven architecture be lost to hovels composed of same-faced and like-sized buildings? It lacked both the finality of dwarven craftsmanship and the artistry of elven masonry. It was efficient. How very crass.

Falendra spoke. “I know.” “You know?” Mordalia’s thoughts departed from thoughts of human inferiority and she turned her attention to her traveling companion, who was already making graceful strides away from her with her absurdly long legs that forced her to hurry in her step only some. It was unfair, of course: Falendra wore leathers that fit well to her athletic figure and left her unencumbered in rapid motion. Mordalia had adopted a traveling robe all of her own, of light and exotic silks that certainly indicated hers was the more becoming figure – but it was a figure that trailed then, and one that did not express its every grace for that indignity. “I find that difficult to believe. I shared no such knowledge with you.”

“Not directly,” the farstrider returned. She narrowed her eyes. “Whatever does that mean?” “That I know where he is. The witch as well.” Mordalia was silent. She looked to her sack at her side and frowned. “If you thought to rummage through my belongings, Miss Silvervale, I will be most cross with you.” “I did not think to do so.” When Falendra looked at her, she did not appear to be lying. But then, what in the name of Belore did she know about detecting lies?

She was suddenly at a disadvantage. If she spoke any more, she risked revealing that Falendra had indeed befuddled her. Perhaps that sort of confidence would make her do it again, and she could have well set a trap for her, but in doing so she was then exposing that she did not know how she had beguiled her to begin with.

“Well, in the future, do not do so.” Falendra walked ahead of her without another word. Quietly, she followed after.

Grand Hamlet rested within a realm that had come to be known as Duskwood, for the sun never truly penetrated the penumbral gloom that lingered vast and impressive over its canopy. Near Quel’thalas, where her second cousin so many times removed Alaryana had once lived in the middling and oft forgotten viscounty of Blackmarsh, similar effluence and anomalies had been associated with the veil between life and death proving thin and immaterial. It was a stark contrast to Quel’thalas and Dalaran, both of which could moderate their climates and temperature with magical adjustments. Could not the impressive mages of humanity do the same on whim?

Did Race H have a hard time fixing their problems without Race E doing it for them? That had been the reason for the guardian after all – the reason why they had needed the Order of Tirisfal to guide them away from their destructive incompetence. But the humans were their legacy, as the prince had said, and so Mordalia looked beyond their incompetence and focused upon the positive. Soon, she surmised, they would be meeting with those that would need their guidance once more.

The path from Stormwind was not at all a remarkable one and there were few horses that wished to travel from Goldshire to Duskwood, proper. Mordalia had thought to summon Immolatus, her glorious firehawk that she had divined from the elemental plane’s fire realm, yet just then Falendra cautioned it would be too conspicuous and in truth, it was exhausting all the same if she did not focus her mind accordingly. “We can fly with him when we near the hamlet,” she finally stated.

The farstrider clearly favored stealth but saw no reason to argue against her wit. She silently acquiesced and they made their way to their destination.

The road was empty and the path long, winding and tedious. They departed from the road, for Falendra was certain a shorter path could be cut through the southern parts of Elwynn if they crossed the river rather than venturing into Redridge (a decision Mordalia quietly resented) and eventually, the two of them were safely across the divide with Immolatus’ aid. She had even speculated she saw some awe in the eye of her laconic companion, but did not pursue it for the woman was evasive and rude.

Their journey came to its end when after traveling for another day and a half after crossing the river, they finally found the hamlet. Mordalia had utilized cantrips and lesser spells to remain hygienic and sanitary, while Falendra wore the wilds like some kind of glorious crown. Sleeping in the open had never been for her – she was more civilized than that.

The town itself was impressive in a human sense, and more particularly, a dire one. The lodgings had been rebuilt and the land was scarred yet fertile. The name of the region had not been wrong – it was all dusk and darkness, but for all of that it was still functional. People milled about, hapless and absent any purpose that would have commended them to the annals of history if the whole of their lives had been summed up. Mordalia might well have taken the whole of their talent and condensed it into something small enough to be concealed by the traces of dark red hair that covered her left eye. It was she brushed those filaments aside that she witnessed the approach of one man – armored, armed, and attempting to seem amiable.

“Good day and king’s honor,” said the guardsman as he eyed Immolatus warily. “Is there something I might aid you with?”

Mordalia glanced but once to Falendra, saw that she had no intention of speaking, and with a step forward opened her mouth. What followed was of greater importance than she could have anticipated.

What followed began her legacy.

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