#seraanna

Maybe I'm a monster Maybe all the things they said were right Maybe I'm a monster Maybe you should run for your life.

Khazdorum looked over the crowd milling about in the briefing room in Sinfall. Venthyr Hopebreakers and huntsmen and enforcers looked at him with varying levels of enthusiasm and interest as they milled about and talked amongst themselves. He looked away from their grey faces, a shade not far from his own complexion, to look at the pamphlet in his hands. The parchment bore a rough illustration of a shapely Ren’Dori in robes and the name  Seraanna Longveil. He’d promised Tyra’s friend Sam he’d look into her disappearance where it might concern Revendreth. A promise made, to Khazdorum, was a promise to keep. And so he stood before the Court of Harvester’s finest trackers and huntsmen. To loose the Gargons. To set the searchers.

The Mad Duke at  his side called the room to attention.

“I must beg your attention, my dear companions! The good mortal by my side needs no introduction, of course. A Maw Walker, and one of our own by oath and action, the most splendiferous Count Khazdorum is to set you to purpose, as I must set myself to... TEA!”

Khazdorum shook his head, amused and, if he was honest, charmed by Theotar in every interaction they’d ever had. So much so that he’d voluntarily bound himself spiritually to him. He was a good man, provided one kept him on track.

“Thank ya, Duke Theotar. The purpose, like everything else in Revendreth, is simple in concept, but complex an’ exactin’ in practice. There may be a livin’ mortal kept against her will in Revendreth.” He holds up the parchment. “This Ren’Dorai lass was abducted under exceedin’ly strange circumstances, an’ may be being kept here. The Ren’dorai are a recent development in Azeroth, an’ frankly there should no be many of them here legitimately, aside from other Maw Walkers like m’self. Ye are ta search for her, and if her safety cannae be guaranteed, ye are ta report ta me or Duke Theotar. She is NOT ta be harmed. She’s here outside of our normal rules, our jurisdiction. She is no ta be harvested or drained in any way or manner.” His voice became quite cold, and the ambient temperature of the room dropped to match.

“I... trust ye understand th’ consequences should I find she was treated otherwise. Ye’ve come sae far, th’ lot of you. Proof that th’ system works. That redemption fer th’ wicked is a real thing. It’d be a cryin’ shame ta spoil all that good work, aye? Eternity is long. Eternity entombed in ice? Unthinkably long. Have I made myself clear, lads an’ lasses?”

There was a smattering of assenting answers from the crowd, but their expressions told a saga. They understood it was not good to cross the archmage standing in front of them.

“Good. My valet Higgins is providin’ ya with copies of this paper, with her description. You’ve yer tasks. Be about. it. If she’s here, I’ve faith th’ lot of you will find her. A thousand drams of anima t’ be split among the ones who find her, and fifty anima infused rubies ta yer gargons. Off with ye!”

He watched them disperse. A promise made, a promise kept, he thought. I remember most of it, Mama. I keep to most of it. He touched the jade hanging from his neck. Where I can, how I can.

He hoped it would be enough for Miss Longveil.

“Seraanna, the one who hears and listens even more. She is a powerful individual cloaked in grace and wisdom. She is a wonderful conversational companion and her silence I also find informative. I enjoy her company when we meet.”

[ Photo by Nicolas Picard on Unsplash ]

hed·dle (/ˈhedl/) one of a set of looped wires or cords in a loom, with an eye in the center through which a warp yarn is passed before going through the reed to control its movement and divide the threads.

– – –

[ An unknown period of time after The Fall ]

The path to consciousness was dim and unmarked, chokingly narrow and strung with thick webs to block her path, chittering sounds echoing in the distance. Seraanna, though, was no stranger to twisted paths of the mind. She pressed through the fog of fading venom and slowly, hesitantly, stumbled into awareness.

Thick webbing still bound her in darkness; that much was unchanged. And, muffled through her enveloping cocoon, there was the sound of chittering voices bickering and arguing.

“We were told to stand guard here!”

“But these orders come direct from Anub’azal!

“Nej’karr ordered us to stand guard, and she’s a lieutenant of Zev’kall!”

“But she’s not Zev’kall. Do you want to disobey a direct order from Anub’azal himself? I, for one, like keeping all my limbs intact.”

“You – might have a point there.”

Distraction. Opportunity. Seraanna carefully tested the strands of her bonds, weakly attempting to draw upon Shadow. If she could break free, take her captives unawares…

“waitwaitwait. shhh. not yet. quiiiieeeet.”

The voice was thin, reedy, and close enough to be in her ear. She felt something small skittering on the other side of the silks that bound her.

“be still. soonsoon.”

Seraanna stopped testing her bonds and went still, allowing the vestiges of Shadow to fade. It seemed to be enough, enough to escape notice. The bickering continued a few moments longer before the voices agreed that heeding the orders of Anub’azal, whoever he might be, was most likely way to retain all their limbs. Soon after, Seraanna heard the muffled clicking of many legs departing the room.

“safenow. patience. heddle helps.”

She felt the skittering presence move away, shortly followed by the clink of glass and the sound of burbling liquid. It dribbled onto the surface of her cocoon, and she felt the silken strands loosen and give way. Seraanna twisted and pressed, freeing one arm and then the other, managing to tear away the rest of the cocoon away as it slowly disintegrated under the solvent her benefactor had applied.

“ready? go now. quickquick, Weaver is waiting.”

And there – it stood. A spider, no, a Nerubian. Small, not much larger than a dinner plate, looking up at Seraanna with half a dozen eyes and a cheeky fanged grin. It waved with a forelimb and turned towards the doorway.

“come. little time. patrol soon!”

Seraanna brushed the last strands of webbing from her face, her eyes following the spiderling’s gesture. The view beyond the doorway was a vast, skyless city, towering spires anchored with cables of silken webbing, multi-legged shapes moving in the cavernous distance.

A Nerubian city, deep underground. More than any person, alone, could hope to escape.

“come!”

[ Photo by Lloyd Newman on Unsplash ]

I want you to know All is blacked out but continues to grow

– Les Friction, “Who Will Save You Now”

Vor’min Evercrown offered a final shallow bow of farewell as the dark-haired man left the room, then returned to his seat. The sin'dorei steepled his fingertips together and took a slow breath before turning to his remaining guest.

“You’re certain, Lady Morrowsun,” Vor’min asked in flawless Thalassian, “that you wish us to extend our services to this man, this Gilnean, on your reference? You understand that it’s quite unusual. Our offices have endured scrutiny enough advocating on your behalf, even if the Lord Regent’s stance has… mellowed somewhat since his marriage and the years of armistice.”

A floating city provides no room for expansion, and Dalaran was a highly valued location - not only as a neutral space of business but for the prestige of proximity to the Kirin Tor. A decade and a relocation to the Broken Isles had done much to erase the memory of Lady Proudmoore’s purge above Northrend. In these times, over five years into the armistice between the Horde and Alliance, square footage in Dalaran came at a premium.

So it was unsurprising that the Evercrown’s “branch office” above the Legerdemain Lounge, sibling to a space in Suramar and an extension of his operations in Silvermoon, was a single, small, if exceptionally well-appointed, room. No. What was surprising was that it existed at all. That anyone would pay the exorbitant prices to lease a space in Dalaran spoke of money. Connection. And a certain sybaritic flair.

Which suited Seraanna entirely.

“I bring you a gift for your service of these… past years, and you question the shape it walks in?” Seraanna reclined in her seat opposite Vor’min’s desk, idly considering the contents of a wineglass held loosely between her fingers, wisps of Shadow wrapping the stem. “Already have I introduced the Lord Hawke to the more open… minded patrons I yet have within Suramar, and my sister is eager to sail the Aralya’diel to his shores. Yet if such trade is beneath… the brothers Evercrown, then I might –”

The ringing of a distant bell - soft, insistent, and atonal - interrupted.

Seraanna glanced question at the door, but her host only shrugged apologetically.

“Dalaran is the city of the Kirin Tor, Lady Morrowsun. Of mages,” Vor’min explained, even as he quickly stacked loose papers and placed a few items into drawers of his desk. “And they are wont to move at their own whims, with little regard for business. That is the warning bell that they intend to do so.” He nodded towards the sideboard, laden with fine wine and fresh fruit. “Do grab a bottle or two, would you? Things tend to become unsteady during teleportation.”

Her expression echoed doubt. Still, Seraanna reached out to grasp the necks of a bottle of port and another of cold voidblend. Arcane energy built in the air, tickled at the void tendrils hidden at the nape of her neck, filled her senses like the coursing static before a lightning strike.

She was nowhere. She was everywhere. She was somewhere. Here.

The shadows cast by sunlight from the window shifted abruptly, and Seraanna yawned to relieve the pressure in her ears as the air changed. A crash of dishware echoed from the Legerdemain below, followed by faint curses, the outcome of some shelf being unsecured before Dalaran moved from one place to a distant other.

“There. See?” Vor’min’s smile was full of reassurances, a gentle nod reminding Seraanna to release the bottles even as he relaxed his own white-knuckled grip upon his desk, the man eager to paper over the interruption. “Nothing but the vagaries of mages. Now, of course, we’re open to this opportunity you’ve brought, but I must ask if this supersedes the arrangements you’ve had us make regarding… the – Lady Morrowsun?”

The ren’dorei drew a gasping breath of shock and curled over her in her seat, her face twisted in a moment of pain as the Shadow cast beneath her twisted and writhed. Her wineglass tumbled from her fingers to shatter on the floor, a red stain spilling into Shaldorei weave.

“…something is… wrong,” she murmured, gathering herself with an effort as the moment seemed to pass. “This was in Telogrus, this was…-”

Seraanna rose abruptly, tenebrous wisps wrapping unbidden about her form as Vor'min leaned back in alarm. Sounds - screams, harsh bells of alarm, crashes of stonework - began to echo from the window. Vor'min’s eyes grew wide with worry, a yet-unspoken question for the darkened shape his client had become.

“…guard yourself." Seraanna's tone was near a whisper. “I must find Jasper.”

Vor’min was still struggling for words as Seraanna swept from the room, moving through the hallway to emerge upon a balcony overlooking Dalaran’s streets. At the other end of the city, streams of arcane energy flowed into the Violet Citadel to feed a shadowed presence that was achingly familiar yet beyond her reach or memory. Above, innumerable rifts tore open the sky to drop skittering creatures to the cobblestones. Chitin clashed against arms as defenders poured from the Silver Enclave and Sunreaver’s Sanctuary, and the city shook as enormous beasts tumbled spires and wreaked havoc.

Seraanna stepped over the railing, shadows carrying her to the streets, and began to snake her way through the chaos. Certainly, Jasper must have had the presence of mind to make for the Silver Enclave, she thought, lashing out to twist the mind of one nerubian - memories from Northrend finally recognizing the attackers - and whispering a Word of Death to another. But something tickled at her ear unbidden in the midst of the chaos, something beyond the whispers of the Void that she'd long endured, something insisting for its place among the myriad truths...

This city will fall.

She redoubled her efforts to reach the Silver Enclave, ichor staining the cobblestones beneath her feet, the screeches of dying arachnids mixing with the fading shouts of Dalaran’s citizenry. She was a creature of Will and Shadow and tousled hair, cutting through nerubians that were only replaced twice and threefold for each that fell.

Nearing the Enclave, Seraanna saw a knot of Silver Covenant valiantly attempt to hold the gate, only to be overwhelmed by the swarming numbers of the onslaught. She felt the gathered energies of arcane portals, heard the shouted directions, the attempt to wrest a retreat from overwhelming force even as defenders fell and Dalaran crumbled. Heedless of the cost, she gathered Shadow for a final press to reach –

– distraction. A glimpse of seemingly familiar crimson from the edge of Seraana’s vision, lost again in the swarm, caused Seraanna’s resolve to stumble over echoes of an old song and a small cottage…

…foxfire?

The prick at the back of her neck caught Seraanna unawares, the pain cold and sharp as it spread. She whirled, her wrath calling shadows that tore apart the nerubian that had crept up behind her. But venom already coursed through her veins. Her skull throbbed and senses grew dull, her limbs falling heavy. A silence that might have otherwise been a welcome respite quieted her thoughts and smothered her will.

Seraanna barely felt the unyielding strands of silk envelope her body, and heard a chittering voice speak from what seemed like an infinite distance.

“She’ll have use for this one. Take it to Azj-Kahet with the others.”

Silence bore the remaining memory into darkness...

– – –