#thronecraft

THE BLOOD  —  SHE CAN SMELL IT,  fresh like poppy seeds laid across white cloth, staining it red, seeping deep into the river.  there are stains even she cannot clean no matter how desperately she may try.  blood is thicker than water, and it runs slowly yet painfully,  dripping down the contours of an already broken world filled with broken people.  they dream are stained with fiery hues,  their suffering burned into the flesh of the land,  wishing to quench their unending thirst on a fountain that has long run dry.  

                   WHERE WERE YOU ?

he asks and she hears him.   his words are bitter bile,  heavy with grief and despair at the meager thought that the sun itself had long abandoned them.  mist tickles the corners of her vision, and in her eyes were a thousand worlds still lingering amongst stardust  ;  worlds that were,  worlds that could be.  

but what use are they to him now he must think,  what good are far distant dreams caught amongst her spindle ?  they are nothing to him but empty promises,  yet he cannot deny the promise of her tears for his rotted soul,  nor the souls of all his kinsmen. she will weep for them till time itself curls in on itself,  decaying low and sparing none. 

                   WHERE WERE YOU ? 

this  place  and  its  glowing  arcana  do  nothing  for  him.  the  remains  of  gilded  statues  and  patriotic  colours  turn  his  stomach  SOUR.  there  are  times  where  he  wants  to  command  the  blacksmiths  in  the  Farstrider’s  Square  to  do  away  with  them.  To  defile  the  magister’s  terrace  the  way  they  had  Silvermoon,  where  even  the  arcane  sentries  would  correct  the  sleight  of  word.   Kael’thas  will --  Lor’themar  will  lead  us  to  power  and  glory.  

but  he  was  not  king.  he  was  the  regent  lord  for  a  prince  who  could  not  be  trusted,  let  alone  let  out  into  society.  and  perhaps  it  was  his  continued  survival;  the  survival  of  his  cousin  who  had,  stricken  by  insanity,  run  off  to  northrend  in  search  of  an  ancient  weapon.   HE  WOULD  NOT  BOW  TO  HIM.

                   just  looking  at  him  made  him  feel  angry.  had  it  already  been  ten  years?

‘    i  don’t  mean  to  be  rude ,     but  your  complexion  seems ...     off .    ‘     fingers  latch  idly  to  the  amulet  of  an  idle  god ,   letting  his  anxiety  knit  itself  into  the  air  around  them .     ‘     i  am  a  priest  trained  in  the  chapel  not  too  far  from  here .     i  can  help  you ,    if  you  so  desire .    ‘

Her interest in Kael’s magic is less morbid fascination and more genuine interest --- and wish perhaps they could ignore the formality and social expectations between a (un)crowned king and grand magistrix would have and discuss magic. He’s a fresh brain she’s yet to pick at in any great detail, and wonders if he’s ever read her published texts (even if under a pseudonym) regarding arcane theory.

Truly sympathizes with his troubles, I mean. Just. Kinda look at the situation she’s in herself regarding fel magic & demons. But, Elisande is a great deal older than Kael is and was when he’d been hit with turmoil, so the only regret she has is not being able to offer any sort of advice in the matter.

Hello Kael Here is your new Time Mom, she will protecc .She might be far more lenient with him than you might think.