#luminash

There came a sense of sorrow through the soulbond from her husband before the pair approached the display in the room, a tiered stand housing neat rows of sheet music written for strings–mostly quartets, but a handful of solo pieces for cello. Luminash knew that it had been the composer’s favorite.

The magister briefly raised a hand, as if to reach out and touch the damaged bow displayed before the music. It yet showed signs of the care its owner once had paid it, but it had snapped, the wood splintered, yet its strings remained intact, a relic from before the Fall, a piece of what life had been before it came crashing down. Another stab of regret as he withdrew his hand.

Luminash offered a bow of the head and a grateful smile to the cellist who sat nearby, lost in the performance of the collection here.

For the next while–he could scarcely say how long–he stood, Jaskian beside him, eyes closed and awash in a sound he’d not heard in many years, and how fortunate they were, in that moment.

The plaque adorning the table read: Leanna Dawnwing.

Luminash knelt at the man’s side while Jaskian went on ahead in silent understanding. Stabilize the leyline conduit or all will be lost. His eyes rolled back in his head as Luminash drew him to lean against the cool stone of the tower; he yet breathed, but consciousness had fled. The magister pressed his palms to the guard’s temples, and his hands flashed with a bronze light. He focused on undoing the damage done in a desperate attempt to suppress his rising panic, itself fed by the knot of gnawing anxiety that was Jaskian huddled in the back of his mind.

With a raspy gasp, the guard’s eyes shot open once more, and he doubled over, shuddering as if suppressing the urge to vomit, “Magister, it… The leyline, it…” He struggled to speak as he slumped to the ground, clutching his head.

“We know. Take a moment to recover, then rejoin the others,” Luminash cut in, placing a hand on the guard’s shoulder, “The confusion will pass. The mind can scarcely reconcile the event with the non-event; this is common with chronomancy,” he continued as he stood and slipped through the shattered door, “There’s no doubt much work to be done!”

Elven shadows danced along the walls and spiral path climbing the tower, lit by the overwhelming brilliance of overloading mana conduits. Those that had not already shattered, spilling forth tendrils of the world’s arcane lifeblood, strained under pressure, the sound of groaning metal and cracking glass echoing from stone walls. The indoor gardens that surrounded the primary leyline conduit and masked the most unsightly of the channels seemed to have grown rapidly, responding to the influx of raw energy, much as the vines he and Jaskian had so gently been tending, but on a far larger scale. Worse, a low rumbling came from below; the very leyline itself seemed to be shrieking in terror at what had torn open the sky.

Luminash found Jaskian at the base of the well in the tower’s center; he could sense the threads of the arcane tangled in her fingers, delicate movements guiding them, weaving them into a throttle for the uncontrollable flood rising from the earth. It seemed as futile as holding back Elrendar Falls with a spiderweb, and yet, Luminash felt the flow begin—even if only slightly—to weaken.

“Making progress?” Luminash asked, although he could already feel the answer. Jaskian only offered a curt nod, her face a mask of complete concentration.

Standing beside her, the magister began to pour his own power into her spell, drawing magic into him with a breath—and how easy it was here, so surrounded by the raw mana streaming from the shattering channels!—a conduit for his wife’s spellcraft.

He was dimly aware of the spellbreakers Rommath had so thoughtfully stationed here leveraging their own skills to stanch the arcane bleeding on the broken conduits, and found himself bitterly thankful for their presence. Jaskian did manage to quirk a slight smile at the pang she felt through their bond, and Luminash knew it would be a point of pleasant mockery later, a light in the oncoming night.

The magister did not know how long throttling the leyline took, but it felt as if it had been hours of constant spellwork, so drained was he by the time it was over. What came next, however, overshadowed the rest.

“It is…” Jaskian began, letting out a deep breath, an exhalation that seemed to draw much of her spirit out with it as she settled herself on the ledge of the well, “Done.”

Luminash, too, felt hollowed out. He had seen a string of goblin lights, once, flash brilliantly just before they sputtered out; the feeling he had was much the same. The spellbreakers, too, both on the ground floor and up the ramp towards the laboratory proper, settled themselves against walls, or on the floor, their breathing labored and limbs shaking.

So exhausted were all the elves present that they had only the haziest awareness of a growing darkness above.

“Magister, with me! At once!”

Luminash was snapped from his torpor by the shout. It had been the guard he had healed, now joining the others within. Unnoticed in the heat of the moment before, the crest on his helmet indicated that he was the captain of this squad—Bel’anas, first name unnecessary, if Luminash recalled correctly.

“Can you not feel it? The laboratory, now!” Captain Bel’anas repeated, breaking into a run up the ramp and past his exhausted subordinates.

Jaskian looked up at her husband, the glow of her eyes dim, and nodded. She reached up, and with a brush of her fingertips against his, said simply, “Go.”

* * * * *

And so, Luminash lent his power to the wards, joining Captain Bel’anas. It was still not enough, though, just as drawing water from a dry well cannot slake one’s thirst: the Void leaking from the artifacts—from simple pieces of tainted elementium to a fragment of an obelisk made from some indescribable material, its surface marred by a single staring eye—threatened to overwhelm what few of Luminash’s vaunted wards remained, weakened as they were by the throttling of the leyline and the destruction of the conduits that powered them. 

The artifacts, in fact, were scarcely visible behind the black cloud that had formed, specks of light flickering within that seemed to watch the pair of elves. There was an interest there, a hunger, as from the cloud reached what seemed a hand, scrabbling at the ward from the inside, like an animal caged, searching for any hope of escape.

Bel’anas faltered at that, once more falling to his knees, this time clutching his head. Lost in the sound of his armor clanking around him as he dropped was a low groan. Touching his face, his metal-cased fingers came away bloodied as a presence forced itself upon his mind. Luminash felt it too, though he was not yet its focus.

He reached out to Jaskian’s presence in his mind, her usual brightness faded with utter exhaustion. There were no words, merely the impression of an embrace; he hoped his fear was not too blatant, but he could not abandon Bel’anas, could not abandon his work here, could not allow this thing to break free in Eversong. Once more, there were no words, but the impression of flight, of safety, of escape.

Luminash’s eyes flickered around the laboratory, searching for anything that could be of use as the ward began to crack, and the seething, roiling Void mass within began to seep out through the opening, creeping towards Bel’anas. The other wards, he noticed, were weakened, but not lost; fel and necromanctic relics sat, inert as ever.

With a grunt of exertion, Luminash seized the threads that bound those wards, one bundle, as it were, in each hand, and pulled, forgoing any delicacy—no gossamer webs, no gentle coaxing this time—and redirecting the power towards the failing Void ward. The cracks began to seal, leaving wisps of black Void smoke beyond, dissipating with a hiss as the beast within howled, its myriad flashing eyes glaring towards the magister as its mass—for was mass, it seemed heavy, even as it appeared only to be fog—was hurled against the barrier in a thrashing, hungry rage.

“Bel’anas?” Luminash asked, his voice raspy and forced, his throat dry and lungs weak. He repeated, “Bel’anas?” The captain did not answer, but did nod, even as droplets of blood flowing from his nose marred the white marble of the floors. He was, at least, alive.

The magister’s body burned from the stress placed upon it, the power flowing through it; his hands cramped from grasping the arcane so violently, as its wild flow sought to escape his grip. Jaskian’s presence drew nearer, not escaping, but embracing him in turn. It was enough—it would have to be enough—to keep him standing for a bit longer.

There is another disturbance in the leyline, Lumi. Jaskian’s words flowed through him, and left in their wake a renewed dread. And yet, she did not seem afraid. There was, instead, a tentative sort of hope.

Then, a rumble from within the earth below, just as they had felt during the first surge, and the room erupted with the Light. The trickle in the conduits, even damaged as they were, became a shining torrent of molten gold. As it flowed into the wards, they shone with renewed vigor, the pale violet of the arcane giving way to a light like the sun itself, the threads of magic tangled in Luminash’s hands searing, snapping, and slipping away entirely.

Stunned and reeling as the power abruptly left him, the only support left to hold up his depleted frame, the magister fell, the cold stone of the floor beneath him the last sensation before his vision faded and his mind was seized by blessed sleep.

The door opened, and the estate porter ushered in the magister’s guest. The porter, a young silver-haired elf from Silvermoon proper, Rilaniel by name, was one of the handful of employees Luminash had brought on for maintenance of the property. He was diligent, skilled, and understanding of how particular Luminash himself could be in his desires for the estate.

Particular, too, was the guest Rilaniel had brought. As quickly and quietly as the clerk entered, so did the porter close the door and depart.

Luminash, formerly interrupted, puffed a few times on his pipe, savoring the scent and the haze creeping over his mind; what often raced, a frothing rapids, had become a calm stream, “Goldleaf. Do come in, make yourself comfortable.” The magister offered an easy smile and motioned with a sweep of his arm to the chair opposite him at the desk.

The clerk adjusted his glasses and padded across the room, sliding into the chair with a distinctly feline grace; his slight frame and melancholic air only added to the effect, “I thank you for the welcome, Dawnwing. It has been many a year since I’ve visited the estate.”

“Since before the fall, you mean. I was not aware that you ever had,” Luminash responded, offering the pipe across the cluttered desk to his guest.

Despite quirking a smile at the gesture, Goldleaf shook his head, prompting the magister to bring the pipe once more to his own lips instead, “I had been a not infrequent guest of your father while he sought to woo my stamp of approval on research petition after research petition. Much as you have often been my guest in the Spire, come to think of it.”

“Ah, how little things truly change,” Luminash mused, “And now you’ve come again, for more of the same.” With a shrug, he slid from his chair, “You will want to see the tower itself, yes? Come.”

As he strode away from the desk, he dampened his pipe with a flash of frost and motioned for the clerk to follow.

* * * * *

Goldleaf nearly gaped as Luminash led him into the restored tower that dominated the eastern side of the estate grounds. Each successive generation of Dawnwing magisters had added their own touches to the structure: Senaril, the first of the exiled Highborne to bear the Dawnwing name to Quel’Thalas, had envisioned it as a beacon in untamed Amani wilderness, a high seat from which to look out on his new domain. Selius, Luminash’s own father, had made it an extension of his more frequent home in Dalaran, filling it with the trappings of the Kirin Tor, a monument to the organization’s twin pillars of scholarship and bureaucracy. In restoring it, Luminash had a grander design in mind.

The entry hall was dominated by a stair winding upwards, and a twisting, arcane sculpture of sorts, a series of distinctly mechanical conduits stretching from this font and running through the floor, the walls, the masonry itself, winding upwards. Surrounding this, a vibrant Thalassian garden, as if to hide the unsightly with the beauty of the forests outside. The tower itself was lit with lamps enchanted to gleam like the sun, to nourish the garden facade. As of yet, the conduits remained dim.

“Luminash, what…is this?” Goldleaf asked, stepping towards the structure towering in the center of the room.

“It is what will allow my great work to be done, Goldleaf. The tower has always been connected to the leyline running beneath our feet, but it has never harnessed that power effectively, never directed it towards any purpose.” Luminash scoffed, “My forebears used it to enchant their lamps, to shift rooms at their whim–parlor tricks! Allow me to show you, Goldleaf, so that you may better appreciate what I offer our people here.”

The clerk continued after the magister, stepping closer to the center of the room so that Goldleaf could see what seemed to be a well stretching into the earth, from which the spiral sculpture arose. Although both men were tall and slim, Luminash’s squared shoulders and blazing eyes, sparks of lucidity sharply focused even from the depths of the torpor brought on by the thistle, gave the other the impression of being dwarfed by someone of much greater stature.

Luminash, with outstretched hand, began to draw something up from below. Though the clerk had little aptitude for the arcane, even he could feel movement in the earth. Whatever this apparatus the magister had grafted into his tower was, it seemed to function as promised as a surge of brilliant pale violet filled the arcane well and flowed forth into the conduits, casting the tower as a whole in its arcane light.

The magister’s face spread into a smile as he turned to his companion. He seemed almost to hum with the power he had drawn into the conduits as he spoke, “With that, let us ascend. The true heart of the project lies above.”

As he followed the magister’s steps–growing brisker as both enthusiasm bubbled over and as the latent arcane power seeping into the structure itself energized him–Goldleaf ventured, “Your proposal was that you would be conducting some manner of experiment in energy transmutation, yes? Am I to assume you need all this power for it? What am I to report to the Grand Magister when he asks why we have authorized the private use of a leyline of all things?”

Luminash shook his head, “He will see clearly when you report the initial results.” When the pair reached the top of the winding steps, the magister ushered the clerk into the room at the top, through a pair of heavy, deep red curtains.

Within, the leyline conduits thrummed with power, washing the room in violet, and initially drawing attention away from the assortment of items the magister had accumulated here.

Along the walls of the round chamber were various and sundry objects of power: fel artifacts no doubt pilfered from Legion worlds; Void-soaked relics dredged from the vilest dens of maddened cults; holy symbols gleaming brilliantly with the Light or with the peaceful vibrance of life itself; runed carvings saturated with the sickly glow of Death. All were encased in multiple layers of warding, some arcane and bearing the hallmark of elven enchantment, others clearly derived from the technomancy of K’aresh.

Goldleaf could scarcely choke out his words over the lump forming in his throat, “Magister, do you understand how dangerous something like this is? These should be sealed away by the Reliquary. Or destroyed! Or–”

“I assure you, having designed a number of their security measures myself, the Reliquary would positively envy what I have crafted here!” Luminash responded. His irritation at his expertise being questioned was evident, though tempered by a warm sense of pride in his craftsmanship, “Please, allow me to show you the purpose of this place.”

The motion of Luminash’s fingers was delicate as he wove a series of tiny portals, transferring–slowly, methodically, much to Goldleaf’s appreciation, which would certainly be noted in his report–one of his collection to the table central to the room, itself encased in another layer of wards, only evidenced by the enchanted Mage’s Eye shining above. The item in question was a small wooden box bearing the mark of the Arathi’s Sacred Flame, but blackened by the touch of the Void.

“Before you lies an Arathi tinderbox, a symbol of their devotion to a manifestation of the Light,” Luminash began, taking on the tone of a lecturing professor, all too common when speaking to magisters, Goldleaf reflected–though he preferred that to those who spoke only with noble arrogance.

“As you no doubt can see, it has been marred by a loss of faith,” he continued, “The Order of the Night, they called themselves, and gave themselves over to darkness. But, I ask, is darkness insurmountable?” He flashed the confident, brilliant smile of a man about to be proven irrefutably right, “Of course not! Our people know this better than most. But what is able to overcome the dark?” He looked then to Goldleaf, expectantly.

The clerk knew not to take the question at face value. When Luminash entered such a mood, his desired lessons were rarely so straightforward. And so Goldleaf replied: “Any suitably strong will. As our people demonstrate themselves, yes?”

The magister barked a laugh, “Ah, a brilliant observation, my friend! Indeed, any suitably strong will. The Light need not banish the darkness. The darkness can, in fact, swallow up the light, or anything else, should it be powerful enough itself.” Though still nearly vibrating with built-up anticipation, Luminash did grow more serious for a moment, “Xal’atath proved this with Dalaran. The K’areshi heretics showed this in their manaforges: any power may be used to bind any other. And so…”

He motioned then back to the tinderbox, “The Arathi say much the same, that our understanding of the cosmos is arbitrary, based on categorizing what defies categorization. You would not be familiar with their work, or that of the Broker Firim, but I believe they approach the truth of the matter.” His eyes gleamed as he raised his hands and began to channel something, the arcane power flowing through the conduits whirling in eddies in response to the movement of his fingers, “The frame of all creation lies beneath what we see, and oh, Goldleaf… If we are gentle, if we are careful, we may…”

The tinderbox, to Goldleaf’s astonishment, began to glow, not with the Light as he expected, not with purification, but with a beautiful emerald, the color of dreams, a hue of hope.

“Pull…”

Then it shifted once more, and Goldleaf felt his stomach tie into a knot: the hope became despair as the sickly power of Death radiated from the tinderbox, black and bleak tendrils.

“Back…”

Another shift, then, as the energy in the room continued to grow; Luminash himself seemed overcome by it, his thin frame drooping, but kept upright by the power flowing through him. This time, the box seemed to split open and emit the same bright violet that flowed through the ley conduits.

“The veil.”

With a flash of nearly blinding golden light, the tinderbox glowed anew with the Light, with its Sacred Flame, and Luminash fell to his knees, his breathing heavy. He looked up towards Goldleaf, though, with triumph written on his features.

“Whatever you report today, know…that the Sin’dorei…” He paused for a deep breath, “With this new understanding, we will…be ready.”

The certainty in the magister’s voice sent a dagger of ice into Goldleaf’s very soul, “Ready for what, Luminash?”

“For whatever comes.”

“It will be my pleasure,” Telivathus chuckled as he slid out of his chair and proceeded to the cabinet where he kept his hand-carved chess pieces, “Which activities first, Dawnwing? Shall I begin with the Blade?”

Luminash nodded, “I don’t see why not, even if their activities in the region are no doubt going to be diminished by Xal’atath’s departure.”

As Telivathus gathered the pieces and began to set the board—the round table by where he and the magister had sat was lacquered with a grid already—he shook his head, “Oh, quite the contrary, my friend. Though Antenorian was cut down, and that ogre in Zul’Aman, the disaffected still flock, and I have reason to believe will be increasing their attempts to gain a foothold in Quel’Thalas before long. The desperation of a cornered animal, to borrow a turn of phrase from Theras, hm?”

Luminash furrowed his brows, pursing his lips in concern as he braved another sip of his drink, “You think so, Tel? I cannot say I am surprised, but rather…disappointed. I trust your judgment in this matter, however, so continue your work as you see fit.”

“The Broken Throne, in particular, is a hotbed of activity,” the former ranger explained, sliding languidly back into his seat on the side of the table where he had set up the pieces carved from ebony, “And as much as I am loathe to admit, the Amani may need aid.”

“Do keep me apprised of the situation. I, and our people no doubt, appreciate your dedication, Tel,” the magister said, leaning forward to observe the board. As he reached for a piece—the queen’s pawn—he hesitated, feeling a warmth emanating from the pale wood, “Is this lightwood?”

Telivathus only grinned back at him, “You are not the only one who can procure interesting things, Dawnwing. And speaking of which, your little fel project?”

Luminash nodded, “Yes, my second question: how have you fared so far? Any news?”

“The Row is still the Row, as it ever shall be, and as I am sure you are aware. The major smuggling operation that was frightened off by the Illidari poking about has left behind caches yet to be discovered,” he said, watching as the magister moved his pawn, carved into the likeness of a Silvermoon guard helmet, “I have a few reliable leads on where they have been stored, both in the city and without, and our dear Nether consultant and I will be paying them a visit to judge their use soon enough.”

He moved his king’s knight, carved into the shape of a hawkstrider, leaping over his row of pawns.

“Really?” Luminash responded, whether to the ranger’s defense, or the ‘dear Nether consultant,’ Telivathus could not tell, but he allowed himself a pleased smirk across the table all the same.

“I do have one request, however, before we conclude this little bit of business and return to pleasure, as it were, my friend.”

Luminash glanced up from the board, a brow raised, and nodded as he moved his own king’s knight over his pawns.

“An enchantment on vellum, so that I may apply it at a later date. The ability for, let us say…a weapon, or other such object, to draw latent mana from the environment into itself, and to release upon impact. An ambient infusion, of sorts.”

Luminash motioned for Telivathus to make his move, “That is simple enough, though that hardly seems your style. In fact, it seems more that of ‘our dear Nether consultant,’ as you so phrased it. Either way, what need would there be, when, to my understanding, your trusty blades have their own sort of infusion already.” His gaze flickered for a moment towards the bookshelves near the bar; he knew what lay behind their hinges, and what sort of infusions a skilled killer produced.

“Oh,” Telivathus waved a hand dismissively, “It is not for my blades, but rather something else.” He then made a motion that called to mind the crack of a whip, and broke into a wide grin, “I am afraid I put pleasure before business, and attended quite the show in Shattrath that offered some inspiration.”

Luminash simply stared, stunned by his friend’s pantomime, opened his mouth as if to speak, then only shook his head, “I dare not pry further. I truly, truly do not wish to pry further. As a favor to you, I will take care of it, as if I’ve no other more pressing concerns.” He shook his head again, brows still raised, though he also looked as if he was stifling a laugh, “Just…make your move, Tel.”

The ranger laughed brightly, “Now, let us put business behind us, and let us see how long it takes for you to lose, my friend.”

“Ah, Tel. Good of you to come; it’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Luminash replied, pushing himself up from the chair. It was not such a struggle, but all the same felt as if his body was dragging him down.

Telivathus eyed the magister as he entered the room fully, taking in the details: a gaping hole in the roof above, a floor ravaged by the elements, the shelves built into the walls broken, and what contents remained resting on the floor. At least the dust had been cleared and the codices and scrolls stacked along the walls again.

“You seem troubled, Dawnwing,” the older man observed, “Care to share?”

Luminash shook his head in response, “No need, Tel. There is simply a great deal of work to be done, and I fear little time in which to conduct my other responsibilities.”

“Such as? You’re a magister, my friend. I am sure no one will mind if you take some time for yourself. You would have the power to simply silence their dissent, no?” Typical Farstrider cheek at the Magistry’s expense.

Permitting himself a slight laugh, Luminash shrugged, “No need for that. It is not about time for myself, but about time for my work. I have a meeting this afternoon at the Spire concerning my report on K’aresh, another with the Reliquary tomorrow morning concerning a manuscript for publication, and–”

“Walk and talk, Dawnwing,” Telivathus cut in, turning on his heel and striding out of the room. In fact, he was continuing down the main stairs towards the estate’s entry hall before Luminash caught up.

“Where are we going, precisely?” “You’ll find out,” Telivathus said, a mirthful gleam in his eyes, “Walk and talk. Don’t let me interrupt you.”

With a sigh, Luminash continued, even as the two left the house and grounds behind, “I know what your game is, Tel. You think I’m too deep in my own thoughts and need to clear my head.”

A noncommittal grunt and a shrug of the shoulders was Telivathus’ only answer.

“It’s not that, but precisely the opposite, you ought to know.”

A brow raised, but no response. A light breeze ruffled the leaves above as the ground began to slope towards the Eldrendar in the north.

“It’s somewhat how you said you felt after Outland. That your mind was elsewhere, and the body is left behind going through the motions.”

That, at last, elicited a response as the pair began to weave down a sharper slope, “I’ve heard what you faced out there. I surveyed the manaforges in Netherstorm for the Scryers, and the damage even a fragment of Dimensius did to reality itself there was palpable.” After pausing while stepping over a particularly hazardous exposed root, he continued, “And I can’t say I’m sensitive to that sort of thing at all. You, though?” He sucked air in through his teeth and shook his head.

“It’s not only that. Imagine, Tel, that there is a…piece of you, something in your soul itself, that does not belong here, but does belong there.” He shook his head, “No, that is not quite right. That belongs outside, that longs to pass through the rift in reality, to exist beyond it. Now imagine it here. It is like being caged.”

“And yet you’re the one who caged it, aren’t you?” Telivathus’ reply made Luminash stop in his tracks, so fully did it cut to the core of the problem, “Do you truly understand why you did it?”

Luminash remained silent, stunned, but continued following his friend as the sound of the Elrendar met their ears.

“You let yourself be part of this world before K’aresh, and you will again, but you need to remember why. It’s what I had to do after everything I was made to do with the Sunfury, and it takes time.” 

As the pair approached the riverbank, Telivathus placed his hand on Luminash’s shoulder. In that moment, a flash of memory: the assault on Tempest Keep, the defense of Quel’Danas, and later, Luminash’s hand in that same position, pulling Telivathus up from the abyss of his own despair.

“It’s going to take time, Dawnwing, but you know where to find me. And your lovely wife is but a thought away, isn’t she?” The older man nudged his companion with his elbow, “Take the time, and it’ll all fall into place.” Luminash scarcely noticed the receding of Telivathus’ footsteps, leaving him alone on the gently sloping south bank of the Elrendar. 

For a man who contained memories of seeing the cosmos from the outside, it was such a tiny place, even as the trees, at last healing from the blight at their roots, towered over him, and the river rushed onward to the near-boundless sea. It was so small, but, as the magister settled onto the grass, so was he; and in that moment, the ache of disconnection faded.

This was why.