Hark, the Herald Val'kyr Sing

Winter Veil had arrived, and brought with it the usual bitter winds, that swept through the streets of Silvermoon and chilled the bones of the palace guards on duty outside Sunfury Spire. Nevertheless, they stood their ground against the freezing zephyr, not moving an inch, until a cloud of deep scarlet smoke roiled and writhed up the ramp from the Court of the Sun. A dozen guards held their glaives up, ready to strike at the heart of the smoke. It was then that the mist collected in a mass before them and bubbled upwards, resting into the form of the Lord Magister of Quel'thalas. Shuffling hurriedly back to their original positions, they saluted and allowed Magyk Sunwing, dressed in heavy robes of padded lynx fur, to pass into the throne room. As he swept through the door, he stripped off his satin gloves and outer cloak, throwing them to the side as a servant hurried forward and expertly caught them, retreating into the darkness of the corner to store them carefully with the other items deposited by the nobility. Skirting the throne room, he entered a long corridor where the gentle sounds of the traditional Sin'dorei Winter Veil melodies drifted through the heavily cinnamon scented air. He followed the aria to the grand dining hall, where many dignitaries from many levels of Silvermoon society were congregated around large round tables, beautifully laid out with golden cutlery and crockery. Magyk glanced around, noting with interest that the representatives of the Magister's were seated as far away from the high table as possible. One could always tell Theron's mood towards the differing factions of Silvermoon by his seating plans, and Magyk made a mental note to ask Lord Theron what Rommath had done to upset him so as he made his way to his place at the high table. He began a quiet conversation with Halduron Brightwing, seated to his right, thanking him for the Farstrider's recent aid in the defence of the sancta.

Hours rolled by, and course after course of festive food came and went, mostly untouched towards the end as the guests stomach's filled. Almost everyone had saved themselves for dessert however, which the palace had become rather famous for, and before long everyone was enjoying the taste of chocolate, strawberry and soft crumbling pastry. Magyk, for once, had allowed himself to become slightly tipsy, and along with Halduron, sniggered loudly into their respective desserts as Rommath coughed and spluttered because of the large strawberry stuck in his windpipe. Even Theron smirked as the offending article flew across the room and landed unnoticed in Magister Duskwither's bowl, who proceeded to eat the slightly chewed fruit with an expression of delight at finding he had forgotten to finish his dessert. Magyk clamped his hand over his mouth and nudged Brightwing forcefully, who was howling silently.

With the dessert's demolished, the collected elite of Sin'dorei society swept out of the room, and across the hall into yet another huge room, the expansive marble floor lit by seven crystal chandeliers. A waltz had been struck up by the small orchestra seated on the raised stage, and already Tae'thelan Bloodwatcher was dancing so exuberantly with Magistrix Nizara that people around them were backing away for fear of injury. Magistrix Fyalenn was trying not to winch too often as Astalor Bloodsworn frequently trod on her toes. Magyk swept across the room, smiling as his robes flared satisfyingly behind him and took the hand of Lady Liadrin, spinning her into the whirling dancers before she could object. Whilst understandably shocked at the sudden outburst of frivolity from the usual stoic Magyk, she quickly fell into step, and the pair arced gracefully around the ballroom amidst the jovial banter of the surrounding elves.

Two hours, and several dances, later, Magyk handed Liadrin over into the waiting arms of Halduron Brightwing, who, still tipsy from dinner, led Liadrin off into an extremely ungainly two-step. Extracting himself from the ballroom, he strode back through the palace, and, stopping for a moment to retrieve his cloak and fasten it around his neck, made his way out into the frigid, but snow-free, streets of Silvermoon. Several bone-chilling minutes later, walking under the walkway's and banners that adorned the Walk of Elders, Magyk spun and grasped the hand that had been trying to lift his coin-purse. Magyk's face softened as he took in the dirty clothes, the unkempt hair, and the shivering shoulders of the young girl, but before he could say anything she had bolted towards the nearest alley. Magyk followed swiftly, conjuring a small globe-light to find his way, and in an alcove, shivering from the cold and cowering in fear of him, sat the girl, hugging who Magyk presumed was her mother and her brother. Magyk, uncharacteristically, knelt in the filthy ally and held out his free hand, where the air shimmered and bore a scroll sealed with golden wax, and pressed it into the woman's hand, who took it with some trepidation. Magyk's words were soft, unlike the icy tones the shrewd businessman he so often displayed used. “Go to the palace, show them this, see you get something to eat.” He took the woman's hand gently and hauled her to her feet, gesturing to the mouth of the alley. As the family turned the corner, Magyk made towards the light of the Walk of Elders, before stopping and throwing his bag of gold into the dark recesses of the alcove. Another moment, and his heavy cloak of warm, soft lynx fur landed over it, and Magyk walked off into the twilight of Winter Veil night, smiling to himself.

Lovely....just lovely. brought a lump to this cynics throat.

Lord Herat Baker strode out through the wide gates from the Lordaeron throne room, his shoes clicking as they struck the flagstones of the outside Plaza, crossing onto the drawbridge as small flakes of pure white snow fell from the dark skies, the green tinge invisible in the misty air, the cold biting at his unmasked face, the snow landing softly on his forehead, snowmelt running down the three long scars over his eyes, evaporating into a wispy mist the moment the droplets struck his eyes, the crystal orbs superheating the cold water. Behind him his cloak brushed against the snowy ground throwing up dust, tiny snowflakes disturbed by the turbulence produced by the fur hem, the Blue cloak reaching up and around his shoulders, draped over the blue pauldrons that made up part of his ceremonial armour. And while the snow was yet to deepen, his footprints marked the so far untouched blanket, his large plate boots crushing the soft snow and compacting it, leaving behind a unique mark.

The Gatehouse to Lordaeron loomed above the Armoured Forsaken, walking briskly up to its ajar doors, his head tilting up to look at the ruined stone architecture, the masonry still beautiful even after its violent destruction. As the tall armoured gentleman walked under its large gates he reached out an arm to his side, his claws gently running against the stones, leaving no mark but making a soft scratching sound, the noise almost musical. Slowly, almost regrettably he withdrew his hand as his feet brought him outside the City, the boulevard before him snow covered, the texture of the blanket giving away the formation of flagstones below it, the edges giving away to a far smoother covering, the tips of grass stems poking through the snow, betraying their presence. The Footprints that dragged behind Lord Cain showed his long stride, the hem of his cloak disturbing the loose snow around them, almost covering their position with a single trail. The Lights of brill could be seen in the Distance, A Zeppelin hovering stationary over the small town, its bright white lights cutting down onto the settlement, snowflakes visible even from distance in the illuminating beam. A small, frown drifted onto Cain’s face, his eyebrows curving downward, listening to the newly risen Forsaken reliving old memories with the Goblin grew of the moored Airship.

“Bah” The Forsaken muttered the sound more of a grunt than an actual word, thinking of the foolish citizens in the town, making merriment when they should be working. “Humbug.”

It wasn’t annoyance in his voice though, his preserved brain thinking about the indication as he walked through the Town towards the Apothecarium, but simple irritation at the Forsaken enjoying themselves when they could be working. Winters Veil was an Orcish Holiday, unheard of in his time, and not a celebration that should be even acknowledged by those who had no time for relaxing. Approaching the Apothecarium he entered under the intimidatingly large Tesla coil, blasting electricity upwards, stepping into the cold, dark building. But there, as his feet had barely brushed the stone floor, snow still hanging around their rims, Lord Cain felt a stabbing pain in his chest, to the right of the bullet hole that still remained just left of his heart. Placing a hand softly over his chest, he could feel movement under his skin, a slow beat as the glancing pain set in, a frown covering his features as he turned to look at the graveyard. Sighing deeply, but not sadly, he turned slowly, his cloak wrapping around his legs as one of the Zeppelin Floodlights landed over the mausoleum in the centre of the cemetery. Placing a hand softly on the wooden doorframe he lent out, spotting an undead child running past his door, a snowball in one hand, a goblin running from his pursuer. Opening his mouth, Cain called to the kid, who stopped in his tracks, dropping the snowball.

“You, Boy, what day is it?”
“Why its Winters Veil sir!”

Cain’s heart skipped a beat, his eyebrows rising, as thoughts bombarded his head. Winters Veil… Was it really something to only be celebrated by the living? What could one night do… and there was someone who would want to see him.
Leaving the Apothecarium behind, the door still open, Cain strode quickly out of Brill, into the Cemetery, the graves looking far less sinister covered in snow, the odd Rose left on undisturbed ground. The Iron gates opened for him as he approached, the darkness in the Mausoleum engulfing the Forsaken, the gates swinging shut behind him. His legs making long steps he took the stairs down two at a time, Torches lighting themselves as he descended, the light warming and Welcoming. Turning a corner he entered the Tomb, the open Marble casket before him, as he stepped up to the Large Box. One hand reached up to his face, his Thumb and smallest claw slipping around the sides of his eyes, scooping them out into one hand, reaching out and holding it over the Coffin that lay in the Tomb. Yellow light exploded out of the Tomb, a soft singing filling the air, The Body floating up, as the Bright yellow stones vanished. The Body turned into an upright position, stepping out of the air down to her husband, Cain taking Drellias hand. Without words, he outstretched their hands, the soft, classical music drifting thick in the air as he moved a hand around her hip, the still beautiful woman resting a soft hand on his shoulder, the two of them turning slowly to the Music. Releasing her hand from his grip Cain wrapped his hands around her waist, pulling her close as she placed a head on his shoulder, the pair turning slowly in the Tomb.

“I will always be yours, my Ghost of Veil past.”

Beautiful- well done.