Syssinia walks barefoot, her aubergine hood hanging low over her face. Word of Lathar'Lazal, "Seat of the Sky", had reached north to the forests of Moonsong. 'A new temple dedicated to Elune,' their rumours spread. An excuse to travel south, she remembers her heart jumping. A chance she could not refuse. Not with so much at stake.
Syssinia walks carefully between the arcane lamps decorating the streetsides. As her feet press against cold and crisp grass she cannot help but wonder: did we truly need another? She could only imagine the temple in Suramar—governed by the Sisterhood. Why, then, did Azshara need one too?
Elun'dris had changed since her birth. No more did her people focus on coexistence with nature; they sought now to subjugate it.
Wisps and fae tend to the skies as they weave between branch and light. The smell of primrose hangs heavy and Syssinia wrinkles her nose. 'Tis an artifical pleasantry, she thought. One cannot replicate Elune's perfume. Her gifts to us.
The streets she walks are barren. No other Kaldorei to greet or stare as she passes. A relief, her heart settles. She cannot afford to be caught. Eldre'Thalas is still very far, but to travel from the capital would take far less time than from Shandaral—a long and unbeaten path with its fair share of troubles. Syssinia tugs her duskweave closer to her skin at the thought.
She rounds a corner and stops at the sound of voices. She lifts her head. Kaldorei swim in crowds of outstretched hands and unified cheering. Grander than any structure Syssinia had ever seen, Lathar'Lazal looms. She pulls back her hood ever so slightly. Her silver eyes shine in wonder as she basks in the elven celebration; men bang drums on rooftops as their hair lives as fire on their heads. Women sing their praises skyward, their beautiful bodies offering all of themselves in sight and excitement. At the center of everything, a lone woman stands. From above she looks down to her kin.
Queen Azshara. Syssinia cowers at the sight of her power over their people—the way in which she smirks at their undulations and exultations. She begins to speak and a curtain of silence falls over her people.
Syssinia breaks away from the fringes of the ceremony, her nose crinkling again. This newfound opulence, this unfettered narcissism; this is not the Elun'dris she knew. She embraces herself in comfort as she slips between trees. To hide in the shade and safety, Syssinia crouches down.
Then she saw him.
A young, sterling man garbed in simple fabrics. Pure silk dyed with reds and blues—the colors, Syssinia remembers, belonging to intermediate arcanists of the capital. He is thin but tall. Sure in his step and smooth in his stop. Who is this man? To see his face, she pulls back her hood. Time slows for them both as silver meets pale blue; her eyes and his. Warmth rises in her chest as lavender paints her cheeks. Her peach skin heats under his sight as if she were a flame and he, a moth.
"Hello there! May I ask why you sit in such seclusion?" He asks her. He stays his distance, his ears perking with anticipation.
"No." Syssinia says. Despite her inner butterflies, she remains wary. She does not know this man.
"Ah. Okay, okay. My mistake." He says. Long silence follows as they exchange glances.
He takes a step toward her in caution. Syssinia tenses.
"Do not fret! I..." he wades through sungrass and shrub with novice coordination, "...simply mean to join you." He settles next to her. The bottom of his robes turn in color as he sits in wet grass. He winces but smiles all the same.
Syssinia studies his face in silence. Her lips curve upward and she exhales, "Why for, Arcanist?"
"Please. You may refer to me as Ilibrius. I hail from House Sil'davar." Ilibrius says. His boyish face smooths and he awaits her name.
Syssinia's face grows hot with violet as she directs her gaze elsewhere. "You spoil me with formalities. I belong to no house—I am only Syssinia of Moonsong." She slips in her white lie. Her safety is paramount; even if her hot, pulsing blood feels otherwise.
"You have come a long way to experience Her Majesty's ceremony. Are you ill?" He asks as he looks around for any signs of vomit or blood. "All is well?"
Syssinia glances down at him before closing her eyes entirely, "I did not come here for her."
Ilibrius blinks.
"Shocking?" Syssinia opens her right eye.
Ilibrius shakes his head. "Not at all. Many people venture here. All for their own reasons." He concludes with a nod of his head.
"Why are you not amongst the people, then? I would think Her Majesty eager to parade her cabal." Syssinia rests her hands on her knees. She watches him with both eyes as she tries to mask her curiosity.
Ilibrius half-shrugs. "What am I good for in that nonsense?"
Syssinia blinks.
"Shocking?" He teases as he presses his hands against his legs. He stands and offers her his right hand. Syssinia's gentle and slender fingers interlock with his. He feels so warm.
"Although, as now the thought occurs to me, I cannot tarry. I am meeting someone—" Ilibrius brushes off his lower body as he spots the dark, wet stain where he once sat. "—after I change, methinks."
Syssinia stands without a word to say, her tongue catching in her throat.
"Will you be in Zin-Azshari for long?" Ilibrius asks, his pale blue eyes and boyish face softening. She could feel that he wants to see her again.
She nods, her hood falling back. Her dark hair drops around her face and cascades over her shoulder.
Ilibrius smiles.
"You hide such beauty with your hood? A disservice, Lady Syssinia, to us all." He jests before lowering his torso in his formal farewell bow. "I hope our paths cross again."
Syssinia nods again as her fingers tug the air where she believes her hood to be. She watches him disappear among the wisps and lights, her skin feeling cold.
Sil'davar.
She commits the name to memory as she tucks her hair beneath the aubergine duskweave once more.
