Sunwing's are....misunderstood... [New 29/11]

Built in the early years of the city’s founding by the first Lord Sunwing, Harrion, the large library, museum, laboratories and vault that make up the Sunwing complex commands a huge area that stretches hundreds of metres in all directions deep under Silvermoon. Each Sunwing patriarch is tasked with securing the wealth of their children by any means necessary, and the most recent head of the dynasty is no exception. Beginning as a large suite of rooms wrought into the foundations of the city, over thousands of years Harrion’s original rooms have been expanded beyond imagining, as his descendants collected powerful objects from Azeroth’s past and a wealth to rival several of the Goblin Trade Princes combined.

Magyk stalked along the long corridor that dissected the complex, glancing up at the portraits on his ancestors until reaching his own. He stared at the painting, his youthful complexion staring back at him from the past. Magyk had taken great care and consideration when he commissioned his portrait. The bottom of the painting was as black as charcoal, the shadows below forming into blood reds robes and fine golden thread. Magyk’s head was held high, and atop it, like a shining beacon, sat a magnificent crown of purest gold and large glorious rubies. Behind the figure, Sunfury Spire shone in an early Eversong light, its many towers displaying banners bearing a massive ornate ‘S’. The same ‘S’ that glinted from Magyk’s ring finger. The figure’s right hand clutched a long golden staff, topped with the Sin’dorei phoenix wings that had become somewhat traditional around the capital’s buildings. In the left hand swirled a ball of arcane power. The real Magyk reached up and delicately stroked the circlet adorning his painted head, and smiled sadly. With one last look he carried on down the long corridor and took a right, commanding the solid wooden door to swing open and admit him to his study.

Magyk pointed to his right, a jet of flame lancing from his hand to light a large golden torch before moving on to the next. By the time the elf had crossed the room and seated himself behind his desk, twelve lamps gave the circular underground room an eerie glow. Shadows danced across the walls, paintings of various views of Quel’thalas adorning the marble. Pulling a large sheaf of parchment towards him, Magyk began writing his daily correspondence.

Sometime later, Magyk stood and exited, the golden torches extinguishing themselves as the elf strode past the corridor of portraits and down a similar hall, this one lined with sets of armour and ceremonial robes behind tall glass display cases. A huge golden door barred the way to the Sunwing Gallery, which swung silently open as their owner approached. Huge blue crystal chandeliers lit with an eerie glow, bathing the massive hall in light. Row upon row of glass display cases of varying sizes held all manner of items and objects, from ancient blades to a curious stuffed dragonhawk that breathed fire when you stabbed it in the eye. Magyk bypassed all of this and entered a tight spiral staircase that wound further down into the ground, his own addition to the already commanding halls above. Further and further he corkscrewed downwards, when upon the point he was getting dizzy, the staircase ended in yet another solid gold door, etched deep with protective wards and curses. A single square foot of smooth gold sat in the centre of the door, upon which Magyk placed his hand. The door swung open silently, a heavy smell of chocolate and orange drifting out as the elf stepped through into his most private of sanctums.

Despite the opulence above in the rest of the complex, the personal sancta of Magyk Sunwing is basic, comprising of only a small corridor and a round hall. The corridor is devoted to the Lord’s most personal possessions, a tiara belonging to his daughter Liara, a locket that he had given his wife Monica, and the long roll of magical parchment that displayed the Sunwing family tree, all the way back to the first Lord Sunwing before Quel’thalas was founded. The round room at the end, however, was an exact copy of another room in the city. One which, five storey’s directly above, held the throne of Quel’thalas. Down here, hidden by tons of earth and dirt, sat an identical seat of gold, and it was upon this that Magyk seated himself, closing his eyes and imagining the day that he would emerge as the King that Silvermoon needed, that Silvermoon deserved.

I can bring my kingdom out of the gutter of the Horde, leading it on it’s true glorious path to independence and power. Under my steady hand, my people will once again become who they were born to be, the master’s of the arcane, no, the master’s of this world...

Continuing these thoughts for at least half an hour, Magyk was in good cheer as he stepped back into the long gallery, past a small moving model of an arcane sanctum and stopping in front of the glass case that held, on a soft pillow of red silk, the old crown of Quel’thalas. Magyk himself had acquired it from the dead King Anasterian’s mangled corpse where it had fallen upon the Isle of Quel’danas, wrenching it from his head in a fit of greed and lust and stowing it safely in the gallery after he had found his mother and wife, who were also slain upon the Island. After six years, it was still marred with the blood of the King, but the gold shone as if bathed in eternal sunlight, it’s rubies glinting in the underground light. Magyk had sworn to himself to look, but never touch the crown until the day he became King. Which, depending on his next port of call, could be very soon...


NB: If anyone is unhappy about any detail of this, please let me know, and I shall do my utmost to satisfy your displeasure.

Pure........ Awesomeness!

Love it, ya scheemer.

I would like to subscribe to the lady's proposal, awesomeness indeed.

If only Arli could read this IC, he'd have such fun trying to break in and steal a few things.

Magyk wound his way through the complex and, ignoring the strange variety of smells, entered his workshop, a small suite of rooms that in ages passed had belonged to one of the lesser nobles of Quel’thalas. From his vantage point on a balcony running around the space, he allowed his eyes to take in the soft bubbling liquids, the partially constructed machines, the large bookcase containing knowledge on all things mechanical and alchemical, and at the end of the hall, a raised dais upon which rested another golden throne. This one, however, had thin wires and tubing flowing into it. As Magyk descended to the floor and wandered through the dreamland or what most people would see as junk and looked up, where, several metres above, was a rippling circle of light. Above this, the fountain in the Bazaar played upon the magically reinforced glass that only allowed light through it from the outside.

Magyk only looked down as he tripped over the remains of a mana bomb that was lying, gathering rust, on the floor. Recovering at the last moment, but still in danger of falling over, he ran almost crouched across the room before steadying himself against the bookcase. He glared at the hemisphere of metal before gesturing with his hand, the metal twisted and contorting into a rough ball, which he threw across the room with a large clang. Proceeding to the throne, he walked around the back to check the many wires and tubes were still in place. Then he sat upon the second golden throne that day.

He had thought initially of the Gnomes, and their curious device the Mind Control Cap. He had taught himself to recognise the complexities of engineering and had been planning to amplify the output of the Gnomish invention to bend the entire city to his will. He knew the Regent for what he was, a moron who would do anything to keep his power. Magyk recognised the need for force, if the Regent would not declare him King willingly, the voices of every Elf in the city would demand it. Magyk pressed down hard upon a button concealed in the fine inlay of the throne.

The room was bathed in a golden hue for over a minute as Magyk concentrated every fibre of his being upon the single thought he needed everyone to bow too. The light receded rapidly, and as it did so, a combination of electricity and arcane magic flew through Magyk’s body, pinning him in place and causing him insufferable pain for a few moments before Magyk was thrown forward and lay panting amidst the collective junk of years of scavenging. His robes where drenched in sweat, and his usual pristine hair was on end. He stood, shakily, and advanced on the throne, gesturing to a large wrench to fly into his hand as he went.

Ten minutes later, after a lot of shouting, banging and clattering, Magyk shut and locked the door to his workshop with several items of golden jewelry and a large spellbreaker shield inscribed with hundreds of small runes in his arms, his face twisted in anger. The dais stood empty.