#she found a magical staff buried in a graveyard and when the spirit asked back for it she went get your own magic stick old man!!

[mpekamitzii]

ANGIEEE

[silent-strategist-blog]

           Alphonse was distraught, and he couldn’t decide which part of the evening had wounded him more. A part of him felt resent for the off-handed way he’d been confronted by the two of his compatriots he most considered friends, and another part only blamed himself for allowing them to see his pains and burdening them with his problems and sorrows.

           He was still clad only in his smallclothes from his examination, and stayed that way long after the two had left him there. He kicked his wall of empty wine bottles in frustration, sat on his bedroll, grabbed his robes, and hugged them tightly around him.

           “If you wish for death, then jump from the tower,” she’d said. And again, “Pull the trigger.”

Calhoun, a mirror’s shadow standing behind the priestess, had echoed the notion. “I could give him a pistol, it’d leave less mess to clean up.”

He closed his eyes, straining against pains both physical and otherwise, to strive for some clarity of mind. It was most likely their frustration with you, surely it is not their minds but their hearts speaking. They’ve spoken with you as friends a number of times before now… But so too I have seen Miss Preston teetering from that side of her personality which is concerned for her fellows toward that side of her personality which is so direct and so single-mindedly reckless. It is very possible that I’ve heard just one of two possible truths tonight, not some mistake of passions.

He glanced back to the railing. His allies had left him, the only two which seemed to view him in anything other than a professional light. What was left was the Highlord, and people who knew him better than they knew Alphonse. If a time ever came where the scholar’s work was neither well-liked nor needed, how quickly would his life come to an end? Or, wasn’t that what his life was doing just now?

“I can guess at what you’re thinking of doing, my boy. Don’t be reckless. You carry knowledge that took many people their entire lives to collate, and cost many others their lives to defend,” Wallcroft said, his ethereal voice resonating in Alphonse’s head.

“Your insistence on haunting me and the book is what led me to this. I didn’t drink quite so heavily before I had to share my mind with you. All those years in the military were fine.”

“I apologize for your discomfort, but you need guidance or all will be lost. Heed my advice and we’ll get your life back on track. No need to end it here.”

Alphonse took a deep breath. He properly donned his robe, replaced his pauldrons and gloves, and grabbed up his staff. He walked to the tower platform’s railing and somewhat clumsily clambered up on top of it.

 “There is a need.”

He jumped, just as was necessary to avoid the network of ramps and walkways below, and teleported without a mind to where just before reaching the bottom.

 He emerged from a cloud of arcane wisps somewhere in the wilds of Lordaeron.

“Light preserve, boy! Don’t do things like that!”

“I free myself of my old life and the burdens that it carried, all the fallen comrades and regrets and time wasted. I satisfy the reckless desires of my compatriots, and release myself from them and give myself over to your instruction. Tell me what needs to be done.”

Alphonse stepped tenderly over the ground. Graveyards could tend to be eerie just by reminding you of how mortality held a lease on all human lives, and the sheer number who had succumbed in this one place, and make you fear that you may follow them soon after. This one had a different haunting aura. Not evil magics or ill intent, but the softer form of human evil; neglect. It was clear, walking past sepulchers which must have at once been marble white which were now overgrown with moss and grass and brush that this place had not been tended to in decades. No single tombstone had been cleaned, meaning no visitors came here. It was possible no one knew of the place at all.

“Here is where the old College buried any who committed themselves to it. Martialists, Tacticians, Logisticians, Diplomats, Politicians, and Strategists alike lay here. My mentors, colleagues, and a generation of my students and soldiers all lay side by side. I owe every success of mine to them. You will owe all of your successes to them,” Wallcroft said as Alphonse tread slowly along the eroded cobblestone path.

“I wish I knew what had become of the corpses of the Black retinue. I would like their caskets transferred here, if this is to be the resting place of those to whom I owe my successes.”

“Find my grave, retrieve the mask. In time, with proper restoration and some practice, it may yet show you the answer to your question. Go on then, don’t tarry here. Go to the catacomb entrance atop that next rise, deep within is where I lay.”

He found the mask still fixed over the skeletal face that belonged to his ethereal mentor. Its face looked long and devoid of feeling, and through the inlays and openings that surrounded the eyes, he felt a spark of life come from beneath even though the mask’s owner was long since dead. He tenderly lifted the mask off the body, and bowed his head reverently to the corpse of Davrin Wallcroft.

“I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m in here with you now, remember?”

“You are whatever this man has instilled in the books. You are not him. I shall revere you both.”

He could imagine the spirit’s thoughtful frown and nod, as only silence was forthcoming. The mask seemed to be made of ironwood, painted black and covered with a blue cloth. It was trimmed with thick pieces of golden steel, making it looked armored. From the back of the mask hung a blue cloth hood. It felt terribly heavy in his hands, he couldn’t imagine how uncomfortable this would be to wear. Yet it would be his to wear soon. He turned and looked back down the dark network of alcoves in the crypt. An equally ill-tended space, though the overgrowth had yet to make it this far underground. Looking at it, he swore that once he had gained mastery over the books and the mask, he would return to this place and restore it to honor the fallen of his Order, and he would bring his comrades from his decade in the military to rest here as well.

“Very good. You’re a few steps closer now, but the hard part has yet to begin. Our next stop is a hermitage in the Wetlands just outside the Menethil Harbor area. You’re looking for an old dwarven shaman named Rorinhall. He’ll be able to restore the mask’s enchantments.”

“There y’are, yer late!” exclaimed the dwarf. He hobbled down the path a few steps more. There was no telling for how long the old fellow had been lying there in wait.

“I didn’t realize I would be expected,” Alphonse answered, letting his head dip in a polite bow. “You have my apologies, Master Rorinhall.”

“No need fer ‘em. C’mon, let’s get workin’. Did’je bring the scepter?”

“Scepter? No, I’m not aware of any scepter. Was there one back in the tomb?”

“Ach, never mind it, lad. It’ll come when it needs to come, you must not be the one to bring it.”

Alphonse studied the dwarf quizzically. He’d known very few shamans before, but the one’s he had met seemed content to talk about the elements and ancestors and leave it at that. This one seemed to be some sort of clairvoyant, which was confusing.

“I suffered this ascetic life fer a century an’ more. The universe shows me the portents, and the portents answer all me questions. Soon it may do the same for ye, lad, but not ‘fore ya done some sufferin’ of yer own.”

“I’d say I’ve done a bit of suffering, but I have the sense that my past pains would neither impress nor satisfy you, Master Rorinhall,”

“Ye’d be right. Got a keen an’ suspicious mind on ye, lad. But if Wit isn’t tempered with Wisdom, ye’ll be a machine fer calculatin’, not a teacher fer effectin’ change.”

Alphonse followed the shaman back to his humble dwelling, past small gardens and farms and a pond. It seemed the shaman tended the whole place on his own, since there were no others to be seen, and just the one house. The building, built into the ground, was furnished spartanly. The only distinctive feature was a massive hearth and an array of strange reagents hanging from the ceiling and walls all around it. When the man came to a stop in front of the fire, Alphonse passed the mask to him.

“I’ll get workin’ on the mask. Ye better help yourself to as much food an’ drink as ye can stomach.”

“And why is that?” Alphonse asked.

“May be the last substantial meal ye have fer a long while.”

As Alphonse ate, he stole glances at the mask. The same spark of life he’d thought he’d seen before seemed kindled now into a flame, a blue flame which spouted from the masks eye openings. An aura of tremendous runic magic and suffused the room and the mask alike, and Alphonse knew that when he donned the mask, it would claim a part of his life for itself. Even though he’d filled himself with stew and bread, he prepared himself a second helping.

“Ar’right, she’s done. Try ‘er on, lad,” Rorinhall said, extending the enchanted mask to him.

Alphonse rose from the table and accepted the mask gently from the dwarf. He looked down at it, and its glowing blue eyes looked back at him. He could feel something travel from the books, which he’d left on the far side of the room, into the mask as he held it. It travelled like a violent gust of wind, and when it entered the blue flames brightened. Alphonse glanced back up at the shaman, who only nodded at him. He closed his eyes at put on the mask.

For all the build-up leading to that moment, Alphonse was surprised at the ordinary feeling of the mask. He’d expected to feel some crushing magical force, but he might as well just be wearing a Hallow’s End mask.

“I’ve left the books in favor for the mask. I will help you from here, and from here I can see the outside world as you do. And when you’ve accomplished your mission, you may silence me by removing the mask. Better than drinking yourself half to death, isn’t it?” Davrin said.

“It is. What do you mean by ‘mission’, though?”

Davrin cackled mischieviously, and Rorinhall took a step closer. “Tha’ thin li’le slit fer tha mouth is all ye’ve got to eat an’ drink through, ‘til ye say tha incantation ta remove ‘er.”

Alphonse tugged at the mask, testing what Rorinhall was saying. The mask didn’t budge, and he did start to feel a greater weight than he’d expected. He took a breath to still his thoughts, then regarded the dwarf through the glowing slits.

“Very well. And where can the incantation be found?”

The dwarf pointed at the books, which peeked out of Alphonse’s satchel in the far corner of the room.

“Ye’ll get there eventually. ‘Til then, I’ve got some tricks to teach ye ‘bout stayin’ alive and listenin’ to tha universe,” Rorinhall said, happy and boastful.

“And I’ve lessons to teach you about your place in the world,” Davrin added.

“I’ll accept them all gratefully. And I venture I’ll have a few lessons to teach myself.”

Rorinhall nodded and smiled a wide, toothy grin. Davrin cackled again, and Alphonse closed his eyes and grinned.