#sortilar

Meanwhile, outside the cave, a pair of shadows made themselves known stepping into the dim light of the thick forest. The blood elf Magister, Sortilar, and his bodyguard, Espoire, the terrible Nightborne.

"I believe this should be it," Sortilar gestures toward the cave. "All the signs match. Perhaps we'll find something of use for the work ahead of us. No time better than the present, after all."

Espoire glances at the multiple yetis wandering about, grimacing under his mask. "Seems about right. Let's hope the old bastard didn't leave a mess for us to look through."

[Sortilar]: "Oh, I presume there are traps and wards... Most likely still active. But you have your new venoms and I have recently been able to recharge, so... A few beasts and traps should not prove too much of an issue, now, should they?"

Espoire looks at him from the corner of his eye, and nods slightly. "Still, I'll go ahead. No need for you to risk it."

The Magister nods to Espoire. After all, that is a bodyguard's job. "Even with that thing of his being considered, deathsting venom should have some effect." 

Espoire disappears into the shadows without another word. 

Sortilar waits by the entrance, hands idle and folded behind his back as he waits for the signal to progress forward. 

Beurghes is near frantic but forces to breathe deep and maintain some semblance of dignity and control. Nothing was happening fast enough for his likes. Hands wildly gesture here and there at Mel. "The papers, book, and research to be set aside. Everything else, pile together!"  Then barks out "There should be oils, douse it all!”

“Gotcha, boss, " Mel salutes, and does as asked. All the books are pulled from the case, and set aside, the Void elf working quickly. He meanders about, snooping for the oils, all the misc equipment, like a snake in the grass, and with a loud...And that is a LOT of noise. Planters knocked over, delicate equipment broken to pieces...Mel's having a great time throwing everything into a heap!

Beurghes approaches, leaning heavily on a cane recently summoned and coiled by the very roots peeking through the walls of the cave. A weak spell for a druid, but a most welcomed respite from his own weight. "The bones and everything else, too."

Mel nods, nearly skipping about - His excitement is PALPABLE as he nearly dances and skips about the area. Books and written works are organized into one pile, and he makes a huge noise FLINGING equipment, bones, remains, morrowgrain, extracts, into a big awful pile. "Ha-HA! It's been a long time before I got to trash some place!" he cheers.

Suddenly Beurghes stops Mel from grabbing a choice selection of books and papers he had set aside on a crate that the void elf was going to just grab. The old druid hobbles forward, a hand out. "Give me those books. I know where to hide them, there's a deeper section, below.”  Beurghes snatches the books out of Mel's hand, giving them a quick look over at their written contents to ensure these were pieces worth hauling and hiding. He gestures to the rest of the unbecoming pile with a sharp flick of his hand. "Get -on- with it."

Once the books are in the Beurghes’ possession he starts to step back, aside. He pauses to look at the stone walls above and around them taking into consideration where the weakest points would be. "After, I'll cave it all in."

Mel grabs a particularly large pot of soil, and ssstttrrrruuuuuugles, managing to lift it over his head some, and CRASHING it into the pile! Mel cackles in delight and victory, kicking the pile and going to find more things.  "Okay yeah yeah yeah, I getcha. The books are in their own pile - lemme grab the oils." he grins, excitedly, his tendrils -bzzt-ing with electricity and excitement. He retrieves the oils, going right into dousing all the equipment and mess 

[Beurghes]: "Don't set them ablaze NOW, you git. Get the rest of the books and papers."

Espoire appear a few yards into the cave, gesturing for Sortilar to follow.

Sortilar doesn't notice for a moment, having occupied himself by retrieving the stiletto blade tucked into the sections of his false leg. Better than trying to use a staff in close quarters. He then notices Espoire beckoning, and moves forward. “Lovely decor," he says flatly, as they progress.

Espoire reappears before Sortilar, placing a hand out. He gestures slightly forward down the cave, noiselessly, with a nod of his head. The racket is echoing through the tunnel. There's someone else here.

The Magister frowns, nodding. He may be no rogue, but he's dealt with enough skullduggery to have some sense of what might be afoot. And then it's clear with the crashing noises. Yetis, perhaps? He waits for Espoire's instincts to guide the matter.

Espoire slinks back again, not stealthing this time. He beckons Sortilar to follow him, slowly and quietly. It sounds like its emanating from just above them.

Sortilar grimaces, moving slow so the metal of his leg doesn't give them away with a similar echo.

The Nightborne turns to Sortilar, and in roguespeak, signs one word: "Action? At this distance, the voices from above are quite discernable.

Sortilar considers for a moment, looking about their surroundings. It's a path up yet without much cover and Duskwhisper's instincts are good enough he will likely sense them if they simply go up it. He points toward one of the cages hanging from the ceiling. His hand swings down as a fist and then opens. It seems he's decided to make a distraction and flush them out. Perhaps even seperate them.

Espoire nods, assuming, as the long range DPS, that Sortilar will do the honors.

Another gesture from Sortilar, a finger walk then pointing forward, hoping Espoire will get the idea... An ambush. 

Above the pair Mel continues to work following Beurghes’ orders. "I getcha, books first." He hurms. The oil is on the stuff, and off he goes, bringing books to Beurghes so that the old man may sort them.

Beurghes only picks what he considers to be most important to be carried by his own person then leaves the rest for Mel to haul. "Can't you see I can barely support MYSELF?" he huffs. "Get the rest and follow me."

Espoire's already disappeared, beginning to walk towards the incline.

Sortilar steps back, counting... And then picks up one of the skulls. An enchantment to aid the impact and then he reels back, chucking it toward the ceiling and one of the cages. It might not fall, but it sure will make some noise. He then ducks down into his position of more cover, preparing if they are smart and decide to simply look over the edge.

Mel groans. "Yeah yeah, don't have a hissyfit, Farmboy. Just point out the ones that you wanna kee-" The noise RATTLES Mel, the void elf yelping like a little elflet, dropping the books down onto the floor, already crackling with electricity as he whips his head about, darting forwards

Beurghes doesn’t appear as startled and instead makes a foul noise, clicking his tongue. "Damnable beasts," he mutters, likely referring to the yeti that meander about.

Espoire takes the opportunity when Mel wanders near the edge of the elevated cavern, raising a booted foot and kicking the void-elf's rear, and off he tumbles from the edge.

Mel looks about, and looks up at the still swinging cage...then around at all the Yeti. Then down at the cracked and shattered bones. "...No, Beurghes, yeti's don't thro-" Too late, he looks behind him, and he spies the Scorpion, just as the boot kicks him RIGHT OFF. "COMPAN-" He squawks as he hits the ground, face first.

At this now Beurghes suddenly turns around to suddenly find Espoire dangerously close in front of the druid. "Scorpion."

Sortilar isn't expecting a moving target, so while he casts the dragon's breath spell he was holding -- flames roaring up past the edge -- Mel probably comes out of it singed, rather than with the melted off face that might have happened.

Espoire chuckles, giving a quick look around. “Evening, Duskwhisper. Quite the place you have here. Fitting, for a bachelor such as yourself."

Beurghes notices the sudden burst of flames and sounds none too amused. "There are OILS poured over the place," he warns to whomever else, but already he has an idea of the person.

Mel has been singed, his leathers smoking, the void elf leaping to his feet and shaking himself out, teeth bared. Well, the first strikes already been struck - Mel surveys around...and lands white eyes on the hiding Sortilar. "Ah, it's you." He growls, the sound unnatural

“Bloody --," Sortilar begins, but manages to collect himself, the years of military training showing as he pulls back down on the excess heat of the blaze he just conjured and wasted, and holds it at the ready for a more focused attack if Mel moves. "It's me," he retorts, voice sharp and eyes eerily bright.

"How unexpected." The old druid glances at the edge of the stone floor, where the fire had burst from and where he now had heard that voice. "...Both of you."

"Indeed, we thought you'd be dead by now,” Espoire nods.

A brief grin of a sneer from Beurghes. "Eager, aren't we."

Sortilar keeps his eyes locked on the ren'dorei, trusting Espoire to handle whatever is to happen on the level above. His job is keeping Duskwhisper's cavalry distracted.

Mel makes a face. He glances up, and calls. "Eh, sorry, Lord Farmboy, looks like you ain't getting yer suicide by sentinel. " he wiggles his arms out, Mel uncaring and relaxed as he makes lots and lots of sudden, uncaring movements in Sortilars line of sight, loosening himself up, but not moving yet.

[Beurghes]: "Tell -him- this isn't what we agreed upon."

[Mel]: "What he said, Magister."

"Shut up, squid boy," Espoire calls, to the ren'dorei, eyes fixed on Beurghes. "You were supposed to be long gone by now, weren't you?"

[Sortilar]: "Pity. Neither was him diced up into puree by a Sentinel. I need that body for study... So, it looks as if I have to seek to recover my losses."

The void elf slides his boots across the floor, back, and forth, back, and forth, fidgeting in weird ways, looking ready for a scrap, but...mostly just bluster for now, it seems.

Beurghes's eyes narrow, staring over the floor's edge. "Sortilar," he calls out for the Magister tensely.

And Sortilar continues to hold his ground in this standoff, not acting. At his age, he's wise enough to know that this pairing off is less advantageous for combat than the other might have been. He's not going to waste a readied spell until he's sure. "Yes, darling?" It seems as if he's in a more energetic mood than usual.

Espoire smirks.

[Beurghes]: "Ease. Both of you. You'd be daft to think I'd try anything fast in a cave of yeti; upset the beasts and they will rampage. And it is far too narrow in here to not expect collateral."

Mel doesn't act. Not yet. But, should Sortilar pay attention...Mel is crackling, tendrils twitching in the high temperature and high humidity of the cave. But he seems to act on Beurghes word alone, so...nothing. Not yet.

"That's what she said," Sortilar mutters under his breath, already tired of Beurghes' grandstanding. Until the ren'dorei has stood down, the spell remains charged and ready to go.

Beurghes speaks through clenched teeth. "AND, need I remind of the oils poured."

"It seems there's much for us to discuss, yes..." Espoire comments, casually clasping his hands behind his back. "Call of your dog, then, I've had my fun."

"Mel!" Beurghes calls out.

Mel's stone cold facade breaks, twisting up into a gremlin, tight smile, snrking. "Pfft, okay, really, whats the call, boss? He ain't standing down - i'd rather not be roasted, thank ya."

[Sortilar]: "I dare say some roast squid sounds lovely."

Mel grunts, and shuffles about, tense. "...Aight, standing down. Cover yer ears." HE states, simply, before turning his body away, and throwing his arm out quickly, deeper into the cave. C-CRACK of thunder bolts through the cave. A small one, but probably not something you'd want to be hit with. "Okay, there you go." he loosens up. For added measure, Mel plunks himself down on his ass, legs crossed, chin in hand. Hrmph

And Sortilar slams his left hand into the stone, the right being a ruse as the energy quickly transfers to his dominant hand and discharges against the stone wall, scorching it.

Beurghes hisses a tense, angry sound of frustation at all the needless noise in a face full of beastly yeti. For the love of...!

Mel was aiming away from people, for the record, but Mel won't cause a fuss over someone flexing.

Espoire silently resheathes the venom-coated throwing knife he'd withdrawn from his belt. His eyes stay trained on the druid in front of him. "So, planning on having a bonfire then? That seems out of season."

[Beurghes]: "Oh, spare me the theatrics, Scorpion, and ask what I'm doing like a sound man."

"What? It seemed like a safe option for something not doused in oil," Sortilar mutters, popping his fingers to work the tension out of them from holding a spell for so long.

Espoire blinks, and laughs, a rumbling noise that echoes lightly off the cavern walls. "Well, then! What are you doing, Duskwhisper?"

Mel sits, jutting his chin out. "Aight. That's fair, Magister. So, what, you dropping in to rummage about the place? Look for secrets? I dunno, have some romantic tete-a-tete bullshit?”

[Sortilar]: "Correct. Someone did not properly deliver his own corpse. So much for the "betterment of the elves". Ha."

[Mel]: "Well, I -asked- him if he wanted me to snap his neck, but he wanted to die by his peoples hands. Also, he's fun to pester."

[Espoire]: "So, I figured he threw a hissy fit about not flying about due to his heart threatening to sputter out and landed in a gulch somewhere."

Beurghes hmphs and attempts to hobble around Espoire. One hand firmly gripped on his cane, the other coiling the small stack of books and papers close to his chest. "I'll tell you when I'm done."

[Mel]: "Yeah, we took a break in Desolace, yer point?"

Espoire takes a step, firmly placing a palm around the druid’s arm, roughly. "Hah... no. No you will not. You will tell me, now. What are you doing with all your 'precious' research?"

[Sortilar]: "I told him not to fly at all, because high elevations might cause his cardiovascular system to no longer work due to the lack of ability to render oxygen properly."

[Mel]: "I hear you two up there, don't make me come up there, or make the old man make me come up there, i'll do it!" he threatens, hopping to his feet. The void elf pauses, and looks at Sortilar dumbly. “We were flyin' low, fer your information."

Beurghes looks down at the hand at his arm, then up at Espoire. Unnerved and annoyed at the same time. "Research? What makes you say that? I'm sentimental over my things,” he lies.

Sortilar grimaces. "He is only intaking about half of the oxygen he could, judging by the blood sample. So, even exerting himself could cause a fatal episode. Whether it by by flying or fucking, chances were good that he ignored his dear doctor's orders and keeled over somewhere."

[Espoire]: "I see, so that's why you were planning on caving this place in with all of it inside."

Mel honks. At that. And looks up, absolutely UNCARING that there's two other people in the room. "OI! FARM BOY. IS THIS WHY YOU TOLD ME NO? BECAUSE -ACTUALLY- SCREWING ME OVER WOULD GIVE YOU A HEART ATTACK?" he calls out, asking.

Beurghes stands as proudly as he could despite his more leaning on the cane for support. "Let me do this. It is one thing."

Sortilar knows exactly what he did, content to fold his arms back into the default military casting position at ease behind his back.

The old druid deadpans at, and pointedly ignores, Mel's outburst. He's not going to dignify that with an answer.

Espoire grimaces at Mel's yell, choosing to ignore it as well. "You promised to surrender yourself and research to the Magister for 'the betterment of the elves', remember? Or have you grown forgetful in your old age?"

[Sortilar]: "Oh, and the coin, for the girl to be nicely set up for some time."

Espoire nods in the general direction of the other two. "And that."

Beurghes attempts to jerk his arm from Espoire's hold. "Am I -dead- yet? The Magister can have my corpse, when it IS one."

"The plan was fer him to be killed, buried, and I'd drag his corpse to yall. Quit getting both of yer frilly panties in a knot, yeah?" the void elf grumbles, and utterly ignoring Sorts presence, Mel moving to head up the stuff.

[Sortilar]: "Oh, so THOUGHTFUL, Duskwhisper, sending a ren'dorei to my doorstep. Excellent planning."

Espoire's grip only tightens on Beurghes' arm.

“Boo, you whore.” Mel honks over his shoulder, lower lip jutted out. Mel directs that at Sortilar. Mel wanders right away from Sortilar, then peaks over the edge. "You coming, you bastard?"

[Beurghes]: "Sortilar, perhaps some things were lost in translation."

"Truly a machiavellian plot here. I'm simply astounded. But, you sound sentile, given you are calling me by my given name, rather than my familial name as you were INSTRUCTED." Sortilar grimaces, prowling now. He is keeping his eye on the ren'dorei, making sure he does not get a chance to interrupt Espoire.

"Your body..." Espoire finally replies, having waited for the Magister to join them, "is one thing. Your -research- however.... that's quite another."

Beurghes grimaces. "...Evensong," he corrects himself.

Mel glances over and squints, peering between Sortilar, and Espoire. He keeps his eyes on Sortilar, and...inches. Closer. To Espoire. Peering and investigating.

Sortilar decides to cut to the quick of it, to throw their enemies into disarray before they can regroup. "Yes, indeed... This is about... Morrowgrain."

[Beurghes]: "My research is incomplete. It would be of no use to you in its current state."

[Espoire]: "Don't think I don't see you, ren'dorei. So keen to save the poor girl this bastard kidnapped, and so quick to return to his side after your faux 'rescue' mission."

"...And what would a Magister of Silvermoon, and the Sc- And -Espoire-" Mel flaunts knowing the name of the Nightborne, "Would want with Morrowgrain." The elf pauses, looking at Espoire

Espoire turns to the ren'dorei, brow furrowing. "Well, that's none of your business, now is it?"

[Mel]: "Oh no, I made it clear to him, if he went after Ily, i'd snap his neck. Easily. Ily's right out of his hair. She's safe. Me, call me whatever, I pity the old guy."

[Sortilar]: "I'm just curious how he expects to go see Sentinels and be oh-so-tenderly dispatched by them after that."

[Mel]: “That and he's great company when he's not grand standing and not being a fucking prick."

"Mel," Beurghes warns softly through a growl without looking at him.

[Sortilar]: "I seem to, after all, remember a certain other druid... It did take me a bit, since it has been years and the actions of the Cenarion Circle have never been of much interest or import to the Reliquary. But banned research that people have died for? Oh, I'm sure the Grand Magister would be quite interested."

Mel glances at Beurghes. He grunts, and...shuts up. He unhooks his stein, and pops it open, slurping his ale. Mel squints at the mention of the Grand Magister, glaring at Sortilar from across the way.

[Beurghes]; "Leave it banned. It is research not even known yet aside from myself. It is intended to be kept away, for it is filthy, unclean, written literally in blood, and I rather it wait a thousand years under debris for maybe then the people might understand and better it."

[Sortilar]: "Oh, isn't it? I wonder why they locked Archdruid Staghelm in a barrow, then. Was that political posturing by Whisperwind to get to where she so precariously stands now?"

[Beurghes]: "Morrowgrain is indecipherable, Evensong."

"Oh, so, void magic is perfectly a bannable offense, but poisons that can assassinate political leaders is perfectly A-Okay, eh? No fuckin' wonder Sunflare was always bitchin' to me about you guys, yer all dicks." Mel grumbles into his mug, sipping.

"Well, yes. I would presume there to be ciphers and such. You'd not write of such a thing in your coffee table book. So, why bury it in a cave where some intrepid adventurer is sure to find it? The Reliquary's depositories are secure and catalogued. Down to the tiniest scrap of fossil.” Sortilar smiles, an expression that doesn't reach his fel green eyes in the least. "I mean... Look at your company. Do you trust a creature born of using Dar'khan Drathir's research to not come dig it up later to pass it to his friends? Or perhaps... Did you intend to kill him and make sure that didn't happen?"

Beurghes reacts at the last comment, a small almost unnoticeable twitch on his face.

Mel bristles at that. "You -wot-?" he asks, a rough, Corwins Crossing type accent bleeding through more than usual, tendrils curling up at the mention of removing him.

Sortilar merely smirks.

Mel turns his eyes at Beurghes, intending to speak, then looking back around, the void elf incredulous. "Oi, fer the record, Lord Farmboy, I don't suggest giving this shit to the Horde either. Hello? Poison that can be fed to people? Potent, no signs of it killing someone till it does?"

[Beurghes]: "Let it be hidden, Evensong."

[Sortilar]: "Why would it be of interest in that regard, given plagues and the manabombs Duskwhisper was so sure to remind me of? The Banshee enjoys wholescale slaughter. Our Regent Lord, on the other hand..."

Beurghes hisses at Mel. "It is supposed to be a -remedy-."

"I bet the Banshee Queen would love the -shit- out of that. Like she had a grand old time twisting the Reagent Lord's arm fer troops and manpower." Mel scowls. He looks back to Beurghes. "That's exactly the point - yer looking into it as medicine, but, the Queen, the Magisters, they won't care. They'll use it as a weapon and not give two shits fer yer intended use of it, yeah?"

"And it has worked so well for her thus far, now hasn't it?" Sortilar merely regards Beurghes. "Unless what you are attempting to say here is you would like our aid removing this ren'dorei from the equation."

Espoire stands silently, stoically. He keeps one firm grip on Beurghes' arm, the other hanging loosely at his side, ready to act should he need to.

[Beurghes]: "I can't decipher it as a medicine. I do not have the knowledge, nor the time."

[Sortilar]: "Unsurprising. You lack the network of resources needed, especially given the stigma associated with the research. A pity."

[Beurghes]: "Your people could hardly do any better! None of us have the current knowledge or means to manipulate this herb, its nature is too strong."

[Sortilar]: "You were, at least, correct in that... I do appreciate knowledge. A waste, but there is the problem as stated: you keep company with a creature malformed by the magics of a betrayer, one who brought the Scourge upon my people. And rather than disappear, they decided to come try and take our Sunwell for the void."

[Beurghes]: “Mel is a betrayer to you, not to me."

[Sortilar]: "...So why would he not? He already did."

"...Jokes on you." Mel eases up.

[Sortilar]: "He was born of betrayal, betrayed you in Elwynn, and will assuredly do it again after your death should it get him some coin."

"I actually already told him." Mel winks, and sticks his tongue out. PTHTBBTHH

"Elwynn?" At this Beurghes narrows his eyes at Mel. This was new to hear.

[Espoire]: “Yes, so that's twice you've betrayed, isn't it, ren'dorei?"

[Sortilar]: “He was quite happy to sell you out."

[Mel]: "Nothing I haven't already told ya half way, boss. They wanted us outta the way, so, clean shot at you. I just actually wasn't expecting 'em to be so quick. but...fuck, whatever."

[Beurghes]: "And -this- is their clean shot?"

[Sortilar]: "Yes, since unlike some of our current company, the girl has not done anything wrong. You, I could care less for."

[Mel]: “Yeah, hell if I know. And that's true. If you do anything to her, I can and will snap yer necks. Leave er out of it. She's out of it. She ain't got anything to do with -any- of this anymore."

"As I stated previously," and Espoire turns to look at Mel with his cold, glowing blue eyes. "You were not supposed to be here, ren'dorei. We offer you your life and yet you're so quick to give it for a thankless old murderer."

[Sortilar]: "As I told them, a clean shot was needed since the progression of your disease will quite literally possibly overtake you like rabies. Thus, they were warned to remove themselves from your presence, before the affliction could infect them or cause you to do so."

Mel makes a face, baring his teeth. "Well, shame on me fer feeling pity for an old bastard and at least letting him commit suicide."

Sortilar regards Beurghes solidly. "I believe you already stated your desire to do so to me and I expressed no complaint. Hopefully, this behavior of his proves why I believe it is not safe for him to know where it is."

Mel scowls.

[Beurghes]: "What would -you- do with it, then?"

[Sortilar]: "Honestly, I do not much care. Burn the books here, as long as a betrayer like this can't profiteer off of it."

Espoire frowns under his mask, but says nothing.

[Sortilar]: "If your corpse is delivered in one piece in a way that will not incriminate me using this... Thing. I am patiently unbothered. Burn it, Espoire can slice your gut open, and we all go home happy."

Beurghes yanks his gripped arm again. "Let me -bury- it. Burn the rest, but bury the research."

[Sortilar]: "Duskwhisper... That is not viable, and I believe you know as much. At best it will indeed be used as a tool for murder. Scrape as you may to try and leave a mark, be it by research or a footnote in a book of illustrations of your dissected form..."

Mel just bristles, baring teeth at the further jabbing, but saying nothing. His tendrils curl.

[Beurghes]: "What do you want  in return for the research to be saved, intact?"

[Sortilar]: "Because it would be wasted knowledge, just like my medical arts in this age of healing spellery. But again, I am not particularly invested. I believe, however, I have been more candid than others here."

[Mel]"I am what I am. Maybe i'm an uncaring jerk who doesn't care fer keeping secrets from old men who're ready to die, yeah?"

"I came for my promised payment. As long as it is going to be delivered in a way that does not involve this creature, you can do whatever you like. But I do believe it foolish to leave it in a cave where this thing knows where it is. Especially given how quick it turned on you and then back when it was profitable to do so." Sortilar by this point seems almost amused. "It's laughable... Did he actually think he stood a chance with you sexually, even hale in your best of days?"

"Then you take it. You mentioned the Reliquary, no? His people can't return to Silvermoon. And it may be wasted knowledge to you, but to someone else, maybe soon, maybe-- " A sudden burst of a cough interrupted Beurghes’ words, hoarse and heaving, dropping the books to clutch at his chest as the outburst passed and his breathing returned. Albeit more ragged now.

"Fuck you." Mel states, "I still got old lists about Magisters and nobility. You still got family, I don't hold grudges but i've got half a mind to act on this if you keep pressing me."

[Sortilar]: "And, as you can see, once he is at risk of not being able to pick clean your corpse... He threatens my child."

Mel jolts, and his spite is traded out with concern, the elves wrigglers curling tightly as he takes a stance to inspect Beurghes though keeping his attention on the Magister. "Again, fuck you, that threat was fer making one of my funny outbursts an insult. Not cool."

Beurghes forces himself to stand as proud as he could muster, a quick movement of hand his thumb wiping away blood at the corner of his lip.

[Sortilar]: "So, Duskwhisper... What will it be? An eager murderer of family for no other reason than his wounded pride... Or, as you have stated, a magister who has offered you out the end you wanted and a means to make sure this book is never seen again?"

Espoire releases Beurghes' arm after the coughing fit, not seeing the need to detain him any longer.

Sortilar waits patiently, unmoving. As he expected, the time has come, if it hasn't already passed and merely been forestalled with force of will alone.

Beurghes gives a final jerk of his now freed arm just for the point of it. Hmph! "You know your answer."

Mel juts his chin out, eyes squinted, tendrils curling tightly up, long ears vibrating with irritated anger. He looks back to Beurghes, then back. "He ain't calling the order fer you two to kill me." he states.

[Sortilar]: "And how would it please you for it to be dealt with, Duskwhisper?"

Espoire walks around to the far side of Beurghes, smiling and holding out an expectant palm.

[Mel]: "I am not an -it-."

[Sortilar]: "Yes, you are. You can go skulking off now you do not have a dying old man to use. But I will make one thing painfully clear..."

Beurghes grimaces a soundless snarl and reluctantly hands over the books to Espoire.

Sortilar smiles, the look slipping to clearly murderous. "If you so much as breathe in my daughter's direction, the Scorpion and I will play volleyball with your empty little skull. Are we quite crystalline clear?"

Espoire takes them, giving a half nod, half bow in thanks. 

Mel glances to Beurghes. He's not pissed at that, flicking a long ear, and looks over to Sortilar. "Then maybe you shouldn't be a fucking prick about shit, eh? But yeah, don't have a fucking hissy fit, I'm not gonna go screwing around with family." he waves a hand, dismissively.

"No, I do TRULY believe you misunderstand," Sortilar states, upper lip curling in disgust as he pulls the stiletto from his belt.

"And what the hell do you think's gonna happen, anyways. I ain't skulking off, because I never gave much a shit about the research to begin with." Mel looks to Beurghes.

[Sortilar]: "I should kill you where you stand for even mentioning it. And nothing in this planet, beyond, or above, will stop me. I will hunt you down, splatter your pathetic little corpse in a path long enough that the carrion birds will not be able to fly from one end to another. Are. We. Clear?"

Mel lifts his chin up, baring fangs. "Crystal clear, assmunch. Now how about you, and that knife, keep away from me." he growls, evening his head out - Mel was a stony facade, body language easy and loose...but his tendrils betray his motions - he's nervous, VERY nervous about that sharp object.

[Sortilar]: "Then do take a couple of steps back and another short fall before I get quite stabby and put more holes in you than you can moan about."

"Speaking of." And with a quick movement, Espoire kicks the cane out of Beurghes' grasp, taking a fistful of his hair and pulling him forcefully to the ground.

Beurghes had been leaning most of his weight on the cane, so having it kicked out from his grasp forced his knees to the floor almost falling over were it not for the grip on his hair which the sudden yank thereof broke a loud, pained sound out of him.

"Scorpion," he says, voice sharp and authoritative. "We will deal with Duskwhisper later. Help the man up and apologize." 

Mel narrows his eyes, and glances over to the downed Beurghes, bristling, and raising his hackles, Mel like a dog ready to strike - in fact, he almost does, lunging and stepping right to Beurghes side to bare fangs up at Espoire. A hilarious sentiment since Mel is so, so much smaller than the Scorpion.

[Sortilar]: "Bloody hell, we are not ani -- and you, BACK."

Espoire looks up, surprised. "I thought we'd be making this quick. A quick slit of his throat and the problem would be done with."

[Sortilar]: "We will ask him how he wants to go, once this other problem is addressed."

Mel stares at Sortilar. "Careful, you stick a knife in me here, dunno if i'd taint the sample'r not." he bites out, and...differs to Beurghes, and POINTEDLY is the guy helping Beurghes back up, differing to the old man.

Sortilar grimaces at Espoire in annoyance, obviously displeased at the interruption.

Espoire scoffs, releasing the old man's hair, allowing Mel to help him up.

[Sortilar]: "If I simply wanted him dead, I could have stabbed him with a poisoned needle at the well."

The druid's hair is released and with that is able to be helped back up again, now leaning more on Mel to act as the cane lost somewhere on the ground.

Mel...looks about, now completely uncaring of the Magister and Scorpion, scouting about for the kicked out cane.

Espoire looks up at Sortilar, uneasy. He doesn't like the idea of keeping a target alive for more time than necessary. There's a reason he made a good Assassin. 

"Sounds like yer the one with a dog that doesn't listen. I may have been screwing Sunflare, but I never fucking acted unless he actually told me to." Mel raises a brow. "Because, you know, I respected him enough to not make a huge fuckin' fuss." he grumbles, differring to Beurghes. "Oi, gimme a sec." Mel moves off, grabs the cane that had been kicked from afar, and returns it.

Sortilar continues staring Espoire down, looking as if that blade might get turned on the nightborne instead.

Espoire actually rolls his eyes at that. "Oh, please, now the squid is lecturing me."

[Sortilar]: "Stop acting like a damn idiot. You will be dealt with later."

Espoire regards Sortilar with those same cold blue eyes, unreadable. "... very well." He turns to Beurghes, and begrudgingly nod/bows again. "My apologies."

Beurghes accepts the returned cane, easing into it as he had been before with what pride he still had after being kicked and manhandled like that.

Sortilar is all but twinging with fury at this point, between Opheria being threatened and now this. If looks could kill, the one on his face would be close to it.

"Well then, Magister," Espoire matches that look, unmoving. "What are your orders?"

"...Ooohhhhhhh, so -that's- what's up." Mel hurms, passing the cane to Beurghes. "Sounds like an issue of power - must be something less than professional. Big guy thinks he can get away acting in the name of a guy who ranks higher than him." he shakes his head, and waves a hand, making s show of dropping it, and also differs to Beurghes. "Just say the word, Lord. Make the decision yerself."

Sortilar simply pinches the bridge of his nose, silently amazed that by some freak circumstance, Beurghes is actually the one annoying him the LEAST currently.

[Beurghes]: "There is no answer I can give you, Evensong, that will change that inevitability that you will do what you already set out to do. You know of my person, my works, and my places. I have no further leverages to wedge."

[Sortilar]: "I am not particularly concerned with leverage, as I have stated before when faced with your analysis. Nor am I particularly in the business of delighting in misery as you once claimed, either. I do not take delight in the idea of slaughtering you like livestock. So."

[Beurghes]: “So what NOW."

[Sortilar]: "As I said, if I wanted you dead, you would be dead. That is simply the facts of the situation. As I asked before this battle of wits that unfolded about us...State how and when. I am not sentimental. If you want it to be now, before the pain progresses and you lose your sense of self, Scorpion will handle it eagerly, as he has proven. He even has a new venom or two for the task."

Mel folds his arms, looking up at Beurghes.

[Sortilar]: "Similarly, you can find a particularly pleasing bed and another batch of women. Or, finish up some business and choose then to die of an injection."

"Neither of us know what will happen once I breathe my last," the old druid starts, a hand to his heart. "I am not -supposed- to be, so there is no reference. Nothing could happen, I die and I'm another corpse. Alternatively, I die and the organic arcane, now without restraint, begins to break down my body far too fast."

[Sortilar]: “Yes. I have measures prepared for that circumstance, as my companion can attest to."

Both of Beurghes’ hands clasps over the top of his cane. "Would they work?"

Sortilar looks aside. "Did you even tell them properly, how far gone you are? I am surprised a mercy killing has not already happened, honestly... You must at this point be having your lungs already crystallize. But yes, the coffin would to the job plenty well. I use it for preservation of corpses I am analyzing regularly. It is a variant of Consortium stasis chambers and quite stable."

[Beurghes]: "Holding up my own body is a strain. I flew my last flight. I have stopped being able to keep food down over a week. I feel my heart beating much too hard, as though in a vice that tightens by the day."

[Sortilar]: "Hopefully now my reasoning for seeing collection of your corpse as a lost effort is apparent. Even if we had found you, it would take a pickaxe, not a scalpel."

Mel looks up at Beurghes, lips pressed together.

[Sortilar]: “You are correct in speculating without the energy of your continued life in the flesh, it could indeed rapidly crystalize. The death of your nervous system in the extremities should have hinted as much long ago."

Beurghes looks down at his hands. Behind the leather and roots, one hand feels far too stiff and almost already lifeless. That he could move his hand and arm at all was due to the ten thousand years of practice and muscle memory at this point.

[Sortilar]: "But, even murderers are offered a last supper. So, what do you select as yours? Because, Belore above... Yes, it would be easier to simply slaughter you here and be done with it, but it would traumatize that girl all the further."

The old druid scoffs at the mention of Ilyssae, still not looking up. "Why would it?"

[Sortilar]: "Because I am sure it will be related to her in lurid detail, and most likely she would also not delight in a slaughter no matter the horrible things you have assuredly done to her. I have a daughter myself, not much older, I imagine. Of course, I might be wrong. She might simply be infuriated to not turn you into a blood sieve herself. I simply speculate due to the reluctance she has previously expressed."

Mel makes a face up at Beurghes. "...Oi, Duskwhisper. You sending me off?" he asks, casual but with a certain undertone of something sad in his voice.

Beurghes does not look to Mel. "...Take care of Ilyssae."

Mel peers up at Beurghes. "...Gotcha." he states, simply, and settles for a pat on Beurghes back. Gently. "Die well, big guy." he states, casual, and eases away, making sure Burger still has his cane so he can at least stand tall.

Beurghes rolls his shoulders back, straightening up more. "I don't want to say anything, concerned they'll be my last."

Sortilar waits through these assuredly heartfelt goodbyes or... Whatever they are. At least he has enough dignity not to rush it along at this point, even if he doesn't particularly see the point. "So... What will it be then, Duskwhisper? The blade, the needle?"

Mel opts to sit and watch by a stalactite

Beurghes says nothing but nods respectfully. Espoire was the expert, after all.

[Sortilar]: "Then, set to it, Scorpion. I apologize for interrupting your earlier work."

Espoire has been standing silently, patiently. He looks at Beurghes, perhaps a bit surprised. He does not complain, however, drawing a blade from his hip. "No preference, then? Standing, sitting, on your knees...?"

The cane is tapped hard once against the floor, both druid’s hands firmly set on top. "Standing."

Sortilar looks aside, unable to help but be a bit grimly amused... If standing was the choice, he might just barely be able to reach the throat to try and make it quick. But a good, clean cut... Indeed, that's best left to Espoire.

Mel watches, calmly, arms folded, a witness to witness the affair. Lips pressed together, tendrils curled. Again, stony face, but the tendrils betray him.

Espoire nods, taking a few steps and takes position behind Beurghes, flipping the blade in his hand. "Very well. Walk in starlight, Duskwhisper, may you be given mercy in your next life." He reaches up, wrapping an arm around Beurghes's neck and pressing the blade into his throat... One quick movement. And it's done, blood pouring from the slice, staining the druid's dark skin crimson.

The cane drops out of his hand, hitting the stone floor with an audible, dry sound as instinct forced his hands to the cold of the knife across his throat and the heat of the blood pouring from it. It was not an elegant affair, the gurgling of choked blood blending with heaving gasps of breath that could no longer catch air. Eyes widen and narrow, unsure of how to feel, what to look for. It wasn't long before the old druid fell to his knees blood seeping from between the cracks of his fingers and the edges of his lips. Normally one would keel over as the body limped, but in Beurghes' case, with the rush of arcane no longer under control in his body, it cracked from his skin in long lines like an overflowing pot more crystal than organic convulsing the body that slowed to stillness.  

"...We need to get moving," Sortilar says, voice flat. He turns about, expression flat and business like, not betraying anything. His hands move to begin casting one of his temporal locks, hopefully enough to keep it at bay until the body can be moved to Silvermoon.

Espoire nods, impassive. "What do you need from me?"

Mel, uncaring that he was now 1 v 2, heads to the Oil covered equipment. And goes to snoop about for...something.

Suddenly a burst of arcane glass tore and breached at the weakest points of his body, eyes and mouth, joints and chest, the sounds of popping and cracking a sickening symphony that jerked the body around until all reactions ceased, and with it movement. A cloudy mist of blue seeped from the cracks in his body and dissipated into the air fading into nothing.

Espoire steps backwards, shielding his eyes from the burst. "Shit--"

"Just carry him. With some dignity, please. Whatever he ha --" Sortilar breaks off, cursing in Thalassian as the spell doesn't take, or else is unable to stop the sudden progression.

Mel flicks his fingers - and provides the electric spark that sets the equipment and morrowgrain ablaze. He turns about, pulling out his stein...and wanders over. Unceremoniously, he pours it out on top of the crystalline corpse...and then turns to go back to making sure the fire burns.

Sortilar lowers his hands, considering the situation. After a moment, he moves closer, hovering his hands near the structure but not touching it directly. "...Am I the only one here who wanted to give him at least SOME dignity?"

"It's what he woulda wanted." Mel lies, boldfaced.

Sortilar sighs, seeming revolted.

Espoire says nothing, looking from the crystallized corpse to Sortilar.

"I will open a portal back to Silvermoon City. It may be best to have my animus golem handle the transport." It seems the old Magister is wise enough to venture a guess that either of them coming into direct contact with something so infused with arcane is a recipe for disaster. Instead, he turns about and begins weaving to form the portal.

"Mm," is all Sortilar offers. "Plants are more of Scorpion's forte. But I do know enough about them to know the environment they live in can cause dramatic changes. These wells are something akin to the Sunwell and Nightwell, and have mutated many species." "So may "azerite", in time. Another reason to catalog such information." Content that the ink won't smudge, the magister snaps the book shut. A deep breath, exhaling as a rumble more than a growl. "You're well educated." "The Grand Magister has no patience for the ignorant and short-sighted," is how he chooses to reply to that. "Nor does the High Examiner." Sortilar then begins to tuck the fabric back into place along his forearms, hiding away his tattoo work. [Beurghes]: "And many-titled, too." "Not particularly," he says, tone flat. "I am a tool of the state, and that is the most important role in which I can serve." He regards his feline companion, the dark lines of kohl around his eyes making their green bright. "Now then… Neither of us are the chatty sort. So, what is the intent here and now?" [Beurghes]: "It has been a while. I assumed you'll be curious as to the extent of both my ailment and your corrective measure." "Mm. Well then..." The magister reaches into the collar of his robes, pulling forth a clasped powder mirror. This he opens, turning half about to let the other see the reflective surface. "As you can see, I am currently focusing on the plant samples." The lion's head rises to better peer at the offered mirror. "Interesting. And what have you found?" "From Scorpion's estimation, the plants along the edge of the radiation plane are in some sort of "hibernation". So, I took samples of several of them and are currently applying various ideas to each. For example, I still have a high concentration of fel magic since it is suitable for my attack spells. Its nature is polarized to arcane, so one of the plants is being suffused with it to see if they counteract one another." [Beurghes]: "Is that what you're attempting with my arm? 'Hibernate' the arcane within?" "It is speculation, but essentially so: the heartwood is already corrupted, so the current concentration of it within the limb would react to that. It progresses through living material like a creeping frost." Sortilar makes an idle gesture with one gold-manicured hand, a sort of spinning wave at the wrist. "So, if it reaches material that is already entirely corrupted, it may cease spreading. Or at least slow, due to a lack of avenues." [Beurghes]: "I only ask you slow it down. If only there's one thing you can do about it." [Sortilar]: "Think of it like lightning striking sand, or hoarfrost ripping through a plant. So far, my research indicates that the crystalline trees may be akin to a "flash memory"... They existed once but the nature magic was consumed and replaced with arcane. Opalization of fossilized bone or wood is also appropriate... Living, "nature" infused material was replaced with something crystalline and "dead", akin to earthen. So, understanding the vehicle by which it spreads is key. Thus the heartwood, but one cannot entirely stop the spread." Another murmur and Beurghes returns his head to rest between his paws. "You don't need to explain it to me so detailed. I both understand it, in a way, as I'm living through it, and at the same time beyond my expertise. I am a druid, but no botanist or magister." [Sortilar]: "Essentially, you will become like the trees in Crystalsong. You use your nature magic and the arcane traces its route like veins. You will become crystal in time, most likely. So, have you begun to experience a dampening of the nerves in your other extremities? A tingling or burning sensation? That is your body telling you that the nerves are strangled. Dying." Another momentary lift of the head so that one paw may perch over the other, returning to rest. "Yes," he answers simply. "Left arm, my fingers ache when moved. Feeling stiff and heavy, as though they will shatter if I force the bend, but at the same time still feeling flesh. Similar now, down the left side of my chest, and starting down the leg as well." [Sortilar]: "Certain conditions can cause neuropathy on their own, such as merely growing too tall. The issue in your case is that as you use magic, it leaves a "hollow", and the arcane energy surges to fill it. Already, it may be rooted too deep to remove, frankly." [Beurghes]: "I accepted that." [Sortilar]: "For you, it is akin to a cancer; connected to the nervous system, veins and nerves. Using it to spread. Which is why I gave the initial prognosis I did, to make peace with whatever you claim as a maker."

Sortilar regards the druid flatly, eyes dimmed. "At least you have been. Some expect a miracle." [Beurghes]: "Ah. The Arcandor gave me false hope; that if I could master its balance as well, mimic it for my own, I could control the burning magic that was tearing me apart. I realized, too late and too desperately, that it not something I have the time and resources for. For every progress, there was a setback." Sortilar listens along idly, managing a nod at the end that makes his earrings jingle. "Perhaps if the source of arcane had been different... More familiar to your body..." He gestures at the glowing water of the well as an example. "It might have been different. But that gets down to specific minutiae such as the residual "flavor" of ley lines." Beurghes chuckles, the sound a bit odd coming from a large cat. Almost human but not quite. "With the liberty and amount that I was consuming mana at that time, heh. I doubt the flavor would have made a difference. I felt as a GOD, if for a few months. And it was good." Sortilar grimaces vaguely at that sort of thought, brow furrowed. "I cannot imagine why one would ever WISH to be like that, quite honestly." His lip curls, baring a canine. [Beurghes]: "...Ten thousand years, for a few months. I had the highest tower in Suramar. The entirety of the city, at my feet. The view, oh, how beautiful - ignoring the fel ladden wasteland around it. The silks of softest feel, the gold heavy and pure. To say that I did it, of course."

The old lion opened his maw for a long-drawn yawn, lifting his head to look at Sortilar. "It was before your time, and before mine, but very much then the thought that someone not of noble birth would ever ascend beyond their caste was as impossible as saying today that you could hold the moon in your hands. I held my moon." Sortilar turns to looking a bit confused at the thought. "What sort of circular logic... Confounding, really. But I suppose I should not be surprised that you would choose to take by force what others might have given freely in friendship." [Beurghes]: "It's a different way of thinking, boy. Let an old man reminisce." "Amazing. Truly and utterly amazing," the magister says, unable to help shaking his head in disbelief. Beurghes chuckles. "Oh, amuse me. For all you know I could be your great great grandfather. What a thought." "Unlikely, given my family is matrilineal," Sortilar says flatly, unphased. [Beurghes]: "Still, the possibility... Oh, I was quite spry and well enamored with many partners." [Sortilar]: "Then amuse yourself with considering the possibility that the sock puppet might be your kin, instead. I know where my family bloodlines run back to, for better or worse." [Beurghes]: "And there's a thought." "A far more suitable one. You seem more likely related,” Sortilar replies, tone remaining dry and vaguely bored. "Now, regarding blood... I will need samples of yours to progress the work." "Take what you want. I suggest, even, you take what samples you need now. Or soon. I will say this, I intend to leave behind only ash." "The would require you being in humanoid form," Sortilar clarifies, thinking the reason should be obvious. The magister collects his satchel, putting the mirror and book away, exchanging it for a rolled case. [Beurghes]: "Seeing what I've seen over the years, I'd be fool to leave behind a body to be prodded and poked, dissected and carved, regenerated or resurrected." [Sortilar]: "Well, at least we are able to agree on one thing. Though, if you are desperate to live, void-suffusion or the scourge MIGHT work." [Beurghes]: "Ah, so you have caught on. In meeting with you, and your associate, figured you'd eventually realize you can do little with the corpse of a beast. Even an arcane infused one. It would throw your studies off." "You are not useful in either regard, honestly enough. I do wish you'd stop wasting my time with those delusions," Sortilar mutters, voice tinged with a mix of weariness and annoyance. Instead, he focuses on assembling the needles needed for the task. [Beurghes]: "Sortilar. Magister. At least put more effort into trying to find my company and conversation somewhat pleasant. We're both tiptoeing along the lines of treason to our respective people here. I actually find you quite engaging and enjoy your visits." "If you say so," Sortilar replies, testing the pull draw of the chamber before pushing all the air out. "Evensong suffices for my name. I am quite capable of understanding that you are attempting to find some mutual understanding with me, Duskwhisper." [Beurghes]: "I'm already quite past pretending beyond my caste. I have lived as common born, and I have lived as lord. And I find the latter of the two both most rewarding and most against my nature." Sortilar looks aside, green eyes focused and sharp. "But beyond an understanding of "it is better to be forgotten ash than an undead", we have nothing in common. It is idiocy to act as if the idea of a shared crime will foster camaraderie." [Beurghes]: "Ah, I see. You think yourself better than me. And perhaps you are." [Sortilar]: "As I said: I am a tool of the state, to be used and discarded as necessary by the whim of the Regent Lord. So, you are once again incorrect." [Beurghes]: "Your breeding, caste, and expertise I do not question, nor challenge. You are an extension of a great power, it is natural that you feel a small of that greatness for yourself. Be proud of it." "The fact that you cannot understand merely proves how far apart we are," Sortilar responds, testing out the connections of the second needle. "But that has been the summation of our interactions, from start to finish. Now hasn't it? For example: you tried to insult me by bringing up my usage of fel. Now, let me ask you: why would that be an insult to me? It is akin to saying I chose to drink salt water and pass the flask of fresh to my Regent Lord. I have probably lost at least a century of my life thanks to it. Do you see my complaining, then? Scraping together what I have in rebellion to sit on a throne of my own?" [Beurghes]: "You're right. It would not be an insult to you, blood elf. I spoke to you, perhaps still do, as if you are one of my own people. I am not aware of the social construct of Quel'thalas, a name strange even for me to say. How much has changed, what has remained but evolved, what words are lost, and what words are new." [Sortilar]: "Then let me be clear: the blood of my brothers, my kin in training and war, and many others are mixed with the mortar and paint of my city. Someday, I hope my own will join it. The Magisters toed the line of "treason" time and time again for the state. And the wisest of us knew those systems might turn upon us and devour us alive if convenient." [Beurghes]: "And you treat me as though I am supposedly know my place in your presence. Whereas in truth we are both elbowing each other to know where we stand, you to me and I to you. I have already given up my posturing, and for the sake of ease I hope you do the same." [Sortilar]: "That is the thing... This isn't posturing. This is who I am, Duskwhisper." [Beurghes]: "Ah! I like to hear you speak proud." [Sortilar]: "Surely, your sock puppet friend has told you as much. So, I do not understand this extensive line of inquiry." [Beurghes]: "It is posturing, mark my words. And my words are limited because we both have to speak in a dialect that is awkward against our native tongues. It is the best word I have for what I see." [Sortilar]: "So. Are you going to let me get these samples, or not? That is my foremost concern at this time, not being understood by you or garning whatever twisted favor you might bestow. I wish to get my work done and have results to show to my superiors." [Beurghes]: "I don't want favors. And come, get your samples. I won't bite." "Again... I need you to not be in... That. Shape." At most, Sortilar seems annoyed by now, like a doctor struggling to get a child in order. "Do I need to procure you a lolly to get you to sit still, be quiet, and comply?" The old lion sits up, tall and proud, and suddenly looking none too amused. "Evensong." Sortilar looks upward, letting out a sigh. Was he cursed in a past life to "interesting times"? "What," he manages, grimacing. [Beurghes]: "If you wish for my apologies, I apologize. If you wish for my respect unto you, you have it. If you wish for my compliance, I have been FAR patient. I trust your expertise, I have my faith in it. So, when I say to cease your posturing I well mean it." "Is this some sort of language barrier? What is this "posturing" I am doing? This is who I am, you can confirm as much with my bodyguard or your sock puppet." At this point, Sortilar seems past exasperated. [Beurghes]: "Oh, you're the one tired and frustrated?" [Sortilar]: "Well, yes! I want to do my work and go home, not sit in the middle of nowhere with a sentient topiary shooting the "shit" or whatever it is the children say these days." [Beurghes]: "Says the one, what, at least six thousand years younger than me?" [Sortilar]: "I would be bored at one-thousand. In ANY case, there is no grand mystery here, nothing to pull apart. This is who I am, it is not posturing or airs. You are not even the first to claim it as much, acting as if I must be some poor, broken soul." [Beurghes]: "I have well accepted my death, and with that comes a certain type of liberation from promises and favors. After all, what CAN you threaten me with? You're the one that needs me for your studies, Evensong. And, again, I have MORE than compliant towards what I owe NOTHING to. You're not poor nor broken, but I have seen many like you. I have been you, even." [Sortilar]: "It is boring and it is tiresome. If you want, you are free to leave; I thought that much was made very clear from the start. You are not something I am writing a thesis on to save my life, you are not even an amusement. So, do spare me! Here I thought that damn sock puppet would have told you as much, whoever he followed into the void was probably one of the many magisters who I am on frightful terms with since I don't bother with the socializing and the parties and the other rubbish." [Beurghes]: "His name is Mel Silentsky. He was one of your own people not long ago. Offer him that much respect, at least." [Sortilar]: "He is a traitor and a danger to the Sunwell. Period." [Beurghes]: "And the most loyal man next to Findreth." "How far you have fallen then, to lean on one who decided the knowledge of a grand betrayer was worth more than the well being of their people and home." Whatever irritation Sortilar might have been showing has slipped away with that galvanizing reminder. As he once assembled and unpacked the needles, he begins to disassemble them for storage, making it clear he's deemed this a waste of his time. [Beurghes]: "You're prideful, Evensong. And impatient. And I'm the one who is dying." [Sortilar]: "I do not appreciate wasting time with this sort of idle chatter. If you want to waste yours, you have companions to talk with." [Beurghes]: "Of this? I have no one else to talk with." [Sortilar]: "I, on the other hand, have plants that require supervision. Anatomy experiments to dissect and document. A temporal spell using hair to perfect. And a dig in Xibala to catalog."

[Beurghes]: "You're the only one who knows the extent of my malady, my only source of knowing what is happening to my body. What little I know is frightening, and what I do know if it is even more terrifying. I speak, perhaps yes a bit much, because I am scared, Evensong. All my years, all my knowledge, all my might, and I am powerless in my own body. The times I speak to you, of what I do not know and you do, bring a comfort to me. I only fault in wanting to extend that much too short time spared from having to be alone with that unknown." "At least you acknowledge it, finally. But I am not the sort to seek comfort from. For example... What did this... Mel..." Sortilar grimaces saying the name, canine showing again in revulsion. "Tell you? I cannot imagine you went into this blind. Perhaps he was the one who planted this false idea of hospitality, though I can't imagine why other than to garner some amusement for himself for that heart-seeds bit." Beurghes shakes his head, mane ruffling with the gesture. "I can hardly remember. Mel talks, a lot. Admittedly, I don't listen as intently to what he says. I'm ...thinking, too much. Fear? Not a new acknowledgement. I've been scared. More of a denial, of sorts. The illusion of perhaps just needing to explore other venues that I haven't sought into yet." "That's another way we are fundamentally different and thus unlikely to ever reach an accord." Sortilar mutters, looking askance for a moment. "But again, your words and actions don't align." [Beurghes]: "I've been told that." [Sortilar]: "Why would I want to chat with you, comfort you, knowing what you have done to someone you now claim loyal? To that girl you claim a daughter? And to everyone else who might, in error, seen you as a friend?" [Beurghes]: "You seem to not want to reach an accord. You are set in believing we are different, we are different, and oh we are so different and that is the truth of your all." [Sortilar]: "Do you take me for an idiot, Duskwhisper? I want to leave, not linger. It's not impatience, it's distaste." [Beurghes]: "Ah, so you're preemptively punishing me." [Sortilar]: "If the vole who avoids the snake is seeking to "punish it", sure. But again, I am tired of this. You, quite honestly, can stay as a cat." Beurghes turns around, shifting in form as beast to man, to sit on the opposite edge of the moonwell's stone edge. He is rather sitting comfortably, almost hunched forward, though sits up proud for his moment to speak. "And, oh! Miss a chance for my blood to be the stepping stone if furthering yours and your people's knowledge? I am dying, but my pride is quite alive."

Beurghes chuckles as he rolls up his sleeve, exposing that horrid gnarled almost blackened skin that looked more leather than alive. "Make sure my name is well spelt in your documents. 'Duskwhisper', single not plural."

"Yes, I know the name," Sortilar says in exasperation, making note to spell it wrong for the amount of bullshit he's been put through just now. But at least he can set to work and in that, the Magister is as brutally efficient and impartial as ever, starting with the necessary constriction of the limb before pressing two fingers into the cavity of Beurghes elbow to check the pulse and count it. [Beurghes]: "I only pray it kills me fast." "If you want that, then use up your remaining reserves of energy quickly," Sortilar says flatly, mentally recording the count. "Hm... It has been a bit since I last worked on a kaldorei. But if I remember the data spread correctly… Have you been experiencing anything such as light-headedness? Anemia?" Beurghes nods. "Yes. Excessive sleep, as well. Days at a time, in some stretches." "Well then. I would also advise you to avoid high altitudes. Consume more meat to help, though there is less and less that can be done at this rate. I cannot know for sure without dissecting you but it is likely the corruption has passed through the chest cavity and is restricting the entire system therein," Sortliar concludes, not bothering with proper bedside manner -- assuming he ever has.

[Beurghes]: "No high altitudes? You speak to the Stormrider!" [Sortilar]: "If you wish to go unconscious and fall to your death, so be it." [Beurghes]: "That's one way to do it."

[Beurghes]: "...Evensong, how, well, unique is my situation?" "If your heart is racing, you will black out. It would be wise to assure you do not do so in a dangerous situation unless you are ready to pass." Sortilar considers, pushing back some of his long curls that fell forward into his face as he did so. "Documented? Rare. I am having to make it up as I go along." "Ah," Beurghes nods. "What a legacy." [Sortilar]: "Mutations such as troll to kaldorei, kaldorei to quel'dorei, so on... The amount of physical research done on those things is little to none. No-one sat there, documenting each bit of mutation. That is what my work is for the Reliquary and my people." "I hear it in your voice. This is a passion of yours. My people..." Beurghes repeats. Whether it is just Sortilar's words, or to himself. [Sortilar]: "The survival of the sin'dorei, with or without me, is a passion, yes. Now then... Have you ever had blood drawn before? A fear of needles?" Beurghes looks at Sortilar pointedly. "You ask a druid, of thorns and claws, talons and fangs, this." "It is different. These needles, to a degree, are my design. I do the delicate work with the metal myself." To make this clear, Sortilar holds it up at eye level. "The piece is crafted, measured, then plated in gold for sanitation." "Fascinating." Beurghes sounds genuinely interested. "Why mutations, physical alterations, of all studies?" Inwardly, Sortilar grimaces at this continued conversation. But, if it keeps the subject from struggling while he works, he can tolerate it. "We are all the result of them. Flesh material and the like is not well-preserved in archaeological formats." [Beurghes]: "Will this help your people?" [Sortilar]: "Things such as scales and feathers do not preserve unless pressed into mud. But if we understand the path of mutation, we can refer to existing ancestors and offspring of a species to understand it... Obviously so." [Sortilar]: "The Sunwell was, for an era, a font of arcane magic. Now it is something different. Members of my species are already losing the green eye tint... And it is gold, not blue as it once was. In a millenia, will we still exist in this form, due to the influence of that naaru?"

[Beurghes]: "Will my people be as affected as yours? You speak of your own people's changes and shifts, and recently so constant."

Closing one green eye, Sortilar studies the arteries of Beurghes' arm, debating on where would be the best to get a clean and easy draw. "Yours do not live so close to the Sunwell. Unless something were to taint all of the moonwells similarly… But in the end, my specialization there is directly correlated to things such as this... "Mel" of yours. Those corrupted by the void, the seeds of the dark. So on."

[Sortilar]: "Now then, be still. It will sting like a bee. Hold the hand flat and loose until it is in."

Beurghes was silent, pensive, for quite some time. He did as he was told to do, holding his gnarled arm out for the magister to fuss and work on his limb however he needed to. And the needle goes in cleanly, hinting at just how many times he's had to do this before through the years. "Now, make a fist, open and close. It will help it go faster."

He does. The stiffness he mentioned before is apparent when flexing his hand, curling slow as though far too swollen and the skin felt tight inside and out. "In studying why the "curse of flesh" exists, I at most hope to find an answer suitable to preserve my people through the dark times ahead," Sortilar concludes, pressing down as he removes the needle. This keeps blood from flowing. He then sets to work with gauze and bandages. "The blood of the mogu and the blood of the false god of Zuldazar both might prove enlightening. Along with other magics I currently have being researched."

[Sortilar]: "There. Now, does that sufficiently soothe your desire for knowledge?"

[Beurghes]: "It is not just for the sake of my own knowledge. Sortilar. I am willing to bargain with you, on a certain matter."

The Magister works with the needle, disassembling and preserving it just so, making use of clear, strong alcohol to clean up after himself throughout the process. He also washes his hands down with it, wiping everything away.

[Sortilar]:  "...And what might that be? I have already had to contract out work recently, much to my chagrin."

The old druid stares at the magister. "This is beyond us, as two from opposite borders. This is about us, as a people. Your people, and mine."

[Beurghes]: "I will agree to you my corpse, for your dissections and studies... Under the ONLY conditions, your word, promise, and honor, that you will share your research and findings with the Kaldorei."

[Sortilar]: "An interesting idea, but you know as well as I that there is not any form of active communication after what happened to Teldrassil. Nor were kaldorei particularly receptive before, given the events of that day." Beurghes looks aside a moment, eyes narrowing in thought. "I'll figure something out about communication." [Sortilar]: "Better I not be involved much, anyway... Last time our people worked together, a certain someone kept trying to turn my employer into a pincushion." Beurghes returns his attention to Sortilar. "I can provide you with knowledge, but I can't decipher it. I ask only for a copy of whatever you research, of your findings. The acquisition thereof, leave it to me." "Mm. So, you think it better to be cut apart and studied, rather than turned to ash? Not as if I find the idea impractical, but I do think many would not like to consider themselves cut open like a frog in death." Sortilar puts each tool he was using back into its specific place in the rolled-out case of instruments, making sure they are even lined up the same way... A hint at just how fastidious he actually is. [Beurghes]: "No, but I've been selfish long enough in my life. Allow the desecration of my body as my penance. Ash or knives, one will erase all that I am and all that is to be known of it, the other may yet prove to better prepare our people." [Sortilar]: "It will be soon, unfortunately. Let that be some comfort for your death, at least... You will not need to live through what is likely to be another Shifting Sands or Northrend. Then again, I may not survive either. But the predictions and lots regarding that sort of thing are better handled by the female Evensongs. I've never had a knack for it." [Beurghes]: "You, or whomever you feel best apt for it. Please, make sense of me. Help them." [Sortilar]: "What is the form of help you actually desire from all of this, though? The kaldorei do not risk arcane corruption to the degree the sin'dorei or shal'dorei do." [Beurghes]: "And you know of that so securely? We may not seek it, but it may be set upon us. I know of your mana bombs, blood elf. I know of the arcane collateral. If not that, what ELSE? Corruption, curse, a false promise?" [Sortilar]:  "Undeath, if I had to venture a guess." he says flatly, expression unreadable. [Beurghes]: "More like ME? Selfish and greedy, far too confident, or too curious. We've mages too, amongst our own, of ancient blood. Oh, they were careless before. I don't know what could befall them, but I won't be there to do anything about it." "Well, I will offer you one option beyond all others," Sortilar says carefully, his tone measured. "I cannot state specifics since these things are not my specialization, but... There have been cases of work done that rendered the individuals inert." Beurghes raises a brow. [Sortilar]: "It would taint your use for study, but might grant you quite a bit longer. At the cost of your use of magic." [Beurghes]: "As in, alive?" [Sortilar]: "Alive, but... Well, it was usually a punishment for us. Done to neutralize particularly dangerous criminals and the like." [Beurghes]: "Stasis." [Sortilar]: "Well, that would be a form of it. But no, this was different. They could move around, talk, so on... Just the normal amount of magic in them was... Gone. For example, it was something that happened to another phoenix summoner. When we first learned, it was an undocumented, dangerous art. Still is. Some who pulled burnt out from the inside, some went mad, some were gone as if in a coma."