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 Journal through Time [New 9/4]

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Magyk
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PostSubject: Journal through Time [New 9/4]   Wed Mar 10, 2010 6:04 am

Harrion. I apologise, I had to leave. I cannot explain properly, but you must make sure that these pages are protected until tenth day of the third month of the year, six thousand eight hundred and thirty three years hence. Please, for the sake of everything, it is crucial that you comply. And do NOT hand them down from father to son! There is a peasant named Sunwhisper. Ask him to pass this down his line. Please, you are my last hope at sanity.

Quote :
People assume time is a strict progression of cause to effect. They are wrong.

Taking one step in Karazhan and the next in the vast dimensions of the Nether is a...challenging experience. To be suddenly surrounded by swirl vortexes of a million different hues, to feel like you are being burned by felfire and frozen by ice in the same instant, the sights and sounds of millennia hurtling past at impossible speed. And all the while testing your mettle against the most insidious demon you have met. Yet I survived.

I had not physically fought anything real since my years as a Spellbreaker. But thank the light I still educated myself in the art of war. A keen blend of my dexterity with a blade and my skills with the magical arts meant that I alone persevered, out here in the eddy’s of time. Falling endlessly through waterfalls of colour, we fought for hours, perhaps years or even seconds. Swinging my sword with the precision of a Blood Knight whilst simultaneously weaving spells of infinite complexity, ancient rites that I alone have mastered in the depths of my mind, their strength multiplying exponentially in this passage through time. Here, I am a God.

But this Godhood comes at a price. One which I do not want to pay for another second. I am alone. Alone with my thoughts, and memories of everything I have lost. I do not doubt for a moment that I made the right choice, but I wish, oh how I wish, that things could be different, if I could have slain the beast and kept my place in my Time. But it was not meant to be.

For centuries I travelled, watching through gaps in space as empires rise and fall, worlds be created and destroyed, people born and die. And then I was Drawn to one. A glimmered portrait in the ether, a fleet of ships skimming across the waves, white shores, and beyond, a far green country under a swift sunrise. Enraptured by the vision before me, I fell through and onto the rough deck of a ship.

For the first time since stepping through that fateful portal in the Ivory Tower, I felt fear. Fear for my life, fear that this was not my Time, I did not belong here. My head shot up and looked into the face of a tall lavender-skinned elf, who, while clearly suspicious of me appearing on his ship, helped me to my feet. I grasped the elf’s hand and stood shakily on the gently oscillating deck, glancing around to see Elvin deckhands glance over at me for a moment before going back to their work. I turn my head back to the captain as he gestured for me to come below deck, and I gladly followed, to get away from the glare from both the sun and the sailors. I passed hundreds of boxes marked with labels indicating that the contents could be used to start a small city if the same amount of crates were aboard the other ships in the fleet.

The Captain’s cabin was sparsely furnished, owing to the fact that yet more supplies were being stored were personal effects would usually have stood, and I only found a seat when the elf gestured to his own chair, opting himself for a crate behind the simple table between us. He arched his fingers, resting his elbows on the table and looking at me. Only then did it register, the eyes gazing across the room, and the eye of the rest of the crew, were shimmering blue. Highborne. My jaw dropped further as I recognised the stance the elf had adopted. I asked his name, to which he confirmed my suspicions. I was sitting opposite my twelve times great grandfather, the first Lord Sunwing, Harrion of Zin-Azshari. When the inevitable return question was issued, I announced that I was Arli Sunblade, a traveller from the other side of Azeroth, and, mercifully, the matter was dropped, although I knew he knew I was lying, I myself employing the look he gave me on many occasions.

Later that day, the crew disembarked on what is now the Western edge of the Tirisfal Glades, Harrion requesting I stay out of sight whilst he talked to other elves about the situation. Whilst people hurried inland to set up camp, I stayed in the cabin, staring out to sea for hours, until my ‘grandfather’ returned. It was at that point I asked him from this paper and ink, which, quite obviously, he granted me. He suggested I get some sleep in his cabin, not having fully explained the manner of my arrival to his kin.

Long after he left, I felt a pang in my gut, the cabin shimmering with soft golden light as reality was cut and time itself began to issue forth through the breach.

Be it by the Light’s power of the grace of the Sunwell, I will return. Return to reclaim my place in the world, in my Time.

<Illegible glyphs and runes adorn the bottom of the pages, sealing the writing from the sight of everyone until now>


Last edited by Magyk on Fri Apr 09, 2010 5:12 am; edited 1 time in total
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Magyk
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PostSubject: Re: Journal through Time [New 9/4]   Fri Mar 26, 2010 6:00 pm


I’m once again in my beloved homeland. Silvermoon’s centenary is upon us and with it a great festival the likes of which modern elves would offer their lives to attend. The Convocation has been created, and Sunstrider Spire stands in the heart of the city, still in progress but already a glorious edifice of the Quel’dorei spirit and tenacity. It pains me to think that most of what I see being built before me will be destroyed in the years to come, but alas I must witness this, if only to make sure things go according to plan. No doubt the Bronze Dragonflight is searching for me. The effect I am having on the established timeline can only be thought about. Am I meant to do anything here? Was I meant to die alone in Time, never to emerge to see my beautiful city again?

I emerged from Time what felt like millennia after I had vanished from the Harrion’s cabin. Yet only a century had passed. I passed through the portal feet first and staggered on the rough ground before toppling head first into a shallow lake. When I eventually did manage to crawl out of the pond my hair was ruined, it took a full twenty seconds to set right again and dry my robes. Only then did I realise I was being watched. I was grabbed and roughly dragged across a short distance to the high walls of Silvermoon. The woods were still dark and twisted; the spell carpeting the forest in eternal spring was yet to be introduced. I had forgotten what old Silvermoon looked like. White stone and living plants in the style of the ancient kaldorei empire and interwoven with the natural topography of the landscape. As we walked through the main gate, I was met with a glorious sight, the streets full of Elves, still lavender skinned but already losing some of their height. According to records, the skin would not reach my hue until at least a thousand years later. A plethora of food and drink was spread across tables nearby, stalls bearing all variety of goods lining the avenue. I spotted an elevated stage at the far end of the plaza, seven high thrones of different styles below the marks of the Seven House’s, embroidered onto cloth that hung in mid-air over their representatives. On the far right, the head of House Drathir sat on a seat of mahogany, Lord Re’gen Bloodstrider on a somewhat spiked chair of dark metal. Lady Andrastia Lightborne was next, upon a throne of purest silver. In the centre sat a larger more regal throne of gold, upon which sat Dath’remar Sunstrider himself. Next to him, at his right hand, sat Harrion Sunwing on a seat of white marble. Then Lady Copella Dawnstar, upon an oaken seat upon which were carved horses and riders. Last, Lord Salter Highcast, on a throne of redwood. All seven looked down on the festivities with pleasure, waving and chatting to those who came to the dais to speak. Only Lord Drathir and Lady Lightborne looked slightly bored, their smiles slightly forced. As I was manhandled through the celebrating crowds towards the seven, each turned and looked at me in turn. Last to see me were Sunwing and Sunstrider, who were deep in conversation. Finally, Harrion looked unknowingly down at his descendant and let forth a small gasp, before telling the elves holding me to stop. I dropped to the ground and skinned my elbow, then stood up before my forefathers, bowing graciously. Honestly, up down, up down, my back was beginning to ache. Six rather confused faces looked down upon me, I heard whispering behind me, the words ‘green eyes’, ‘horrible skin’ and ‘short elf’ featuring prominently. Harrion threw his arm around my shoulders and led me away from the crowds and the rest of the Convocation, most of whom had already forgotten my existence and went back to their conversations.

Augur’s Row was almost finished, although he scaffolding and tools had been left abandoned for today’s celebrations. Harrion didn’t speak much, but I knew where we were headed. To the complex of rooms under the city that one day would become my own. He apologised for the guards behaviour, muttered something about an unfinished building and unlocked the door that led to the long stairway down. I followed without a word. It was in my his office that the real conversation got underway. He asked where I had gone, about the mysterious note I had left, why I had turned up again now. I had planned on more white lies, but for some reason I decided the truth was better. After all, Harrion was wise enough to keep his mouth shut. And so the whole rotten saga issued from my lips, although obviously I kept Arthas’ invasion well out of our talk. And the true reason for my emerald green eyes. No, I told him I was from the future, that in the process of defeating a great demonic entity I had fallen back through time. He absorbed it all, leaning across his desk with an all too familiar look, silently accepting the impossibilities I was laying before him until I had finished. Then he spoke of trust, of how despite being a complete stranger, and a possible danger to his crew, he had inexplicably had faith in the visitor’s words.
We made our way back up to ground level and out onto the busy streets once more, stopping several times so Harrion could deal with trivial matters that I would have laughed at at home. I found myself enthralled by my ancestor, his kind words and generous nature radiating out from him, an almost visible aura of joy that the lower elf caste’s thrived on. I found myself in doubt. Was it better to be hated and feared, than loved and cared for? What makes people like myself and Harrion different? Our timelines obviously, but there is something more. Harrion enjoys the company of his inferiors, that much is clear. What have I become, obsessed as I am with my social standing and the amount of gold in the vaults? I am concerned with the safety of Silvermoon, but surely that should not come at the cost of its people. I feel I am to become more enlightened on this journey.

I was dancing with a young blonde when a multitude of red hot pincers plucked at me, tugging at my very heart. I glanced around and rushed for cover, only to find a narrow alley. It sufficed, and I was halfway along when the shimmering golden light appeared, the now familiar sign of a tear in Time. I stopped, staring into the wondrous stream of Time itself, being slowly dragged into the swirling mist until my entire body was enveloped. I glanced behind me, the happy dancing crowds still visible at the end of the alley, until the fabric of reality descended like a stage curtain, shutting me off.

It’s like Time is trying to latch on to my proper place, dumping me in situations that fill my mind. I am now in a place that I still have nightmares about, staining my memory all my life. I am, once again, at the Fall....
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Magyk
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PostSubject: Re: Journal through Time [New 9/4]   Fri Apr 09, 2010 5:11 am

I must be most careful with even the simplest movements now. If someone spots another Magyk Sunwing walking around, who knows what will happen. I am in the suite of rooms below Silvermoon, content in the fact that no one will enter them, except perhaps a younger version of myself. I’ve already walked into my office to already see me sat behind my desk working. Thank the Sunwell I can’t abide squeaking doors and could escape unseen. Quite obviously, I have survived the fall of our great nation again, seeing things in a terribly different view.

Last time, I was sent with Prince Kael’thas to Dalaran. The first we learned about the Sunwell’s destruction was the overwhelming sense of loss and emptiness, the slowly diminishing supply of magic at our fingertips. Several times I was in the Purple Parlour to see several of our brethren standing on the balcony, looking wistfully to the Northeast. We all sensed something had happened. We all knew that Lordaeron had fallen to the Undead Scourge. It didn’t take long to draw the right conclusions. I’ve already written a short transcript of what happened to me when I got back. The rest is, as they say, history. Or not, in my case. It is Present.

I had arrived on Quel’danas, the one place I felt I needed to be, if only to see Monica one last time. I wandered around Sun’s Reach in something of a daze, people hurrying to mount a defence, Aquel'Luer'Thala struggling to prepare her Dragonhawks for the battle ahead. And amidst the chaos, I saw her. Timeless beauty shone from her, her soft blonde hair flowing down to her shoulders where it had escaped from the hair tie at the nape of her neck. Her sapphire blue dress complimented her body, and I recognised the silver pendant I’d given her on our last anniversary. A pendant that I can’t remember finding on her body when I arrived a week later. The first scream pierced the air, and although far off to the South, it sent a shiver down my spine. Every single elf stopped moving and looked out from where the sound had come from. And above the glittering spires of the Sunwell Plateau, the gargoyles appeared.

Diving and swooping, the monsterous stone beasts picked at the populace, tearing into the defenceless elves with their claws, as abominations and the skeletons burst their way through what meagre defences my kin could muster. Monica vanished into a house for a moment to reappear with, my heart skipped a beat, my mother, leaning heavily on my wife. They made their way towards the plateau, where most of the surrounding elves were headed to, no doubt to mount the last defence. They still didn’t notice me as I swept into the Sun’s Reach armoury and grabbed a set of armour, strapping on the plates as I watched through the window the progress of the women. I grabbed a slender blade as they manoeuvred through the Shepherd’s Gate and out of sight into Parhelion Plaza, the screams of the dying carrying over the walls. Yet still, Elves poured from the village towards the commotion, determined to save the Sunwell, resolute despite knowing they would in all likelihood die, after all, the invaders must have passed through Southern Quel’thalas and Silvermoon City itself. I rushed out of the armoury and ran towards the plateau gateway, jamming a helmet onto my head and muttering a quick incantation in Thalassian to form the illusion of the Highborne blue eyes that I desperately wanted to keep. Looking back, it was quite obvious that we should not have followed our Prince Kael’thas. I wonder if I would have moved to Dalaran, or Stormwind, like my sensible kin.

It was at Apex Point that I looked South-East to the two sweeping arms of the Plateau that embraced the courtyard, and saw archers and mages, priests and warriors all trying what I know is in vain to defend the courtyard before the unstoppable onslaught of the dead. And when I finally reached a balcony overlooking the courtyard itself, I looked down upon the last true Sun King, fighting heroically in the centre of a whirlwind of blades, Lord’s Lightborne and Duskleaf of the Convocation at his sides, cleaving and hacking their way through the fallen people’s of two great kingdoms, Thalorien Dawnseeker wielding the legendary Quel’delar, it’s gleam shining as a beacon in the midst of the encroaching darkness. It was the flutter of sapphire silk that drew my eyes to my wife, kneeling close to the edge of the plaza and expending all the magic she could in aid of the elves. My mother stood beside her, screaming words in several tongues and hurling bolts of fire and ice, lightning forking from her hands as great swathes of dead tried to get close. A chill descended over the entire court as the spectral remains of a white steed made its way through the throng of the battle, it’s rider swathed in amour forged with the cruellest intentions. The rider’s sword glowing with a pale blue light, a corpse light that illuminated nothing but the malevolent runes etched into the blade.

When King Anasterian and the Council finally spotted Arthas, they engaged him immediately, the King making a valiant slice at the horse’s forelegs, severing them. Arthas half fell from his stallion and confronted Anasterian directly, Frostmourne shattering the king’s blade Felo’melorn in a single strike, the monarch of our glorious nation falling likewise. As Arthas working unholy magic into Invincible’s injured legs, years of rage and hatred boiled to the surface inside me. With a gallant leap that I can honesty say I am proud of, I leapt from the balcony and grabbed the banner hanging from it’s base, slowing my descent until I landed quite heavily on the smooth marble of the courtyard base. I unsheathed my blade, ran towards the beast who had killed, and would kill my people, desecrate the Sunwell, enact unspeakable horrors in the years to come. The undead ignored me, I made a beeline for what remained of the Crown Prince of Lordaeron and hacked at his neck.

He didn’t move. My blade swept through his body, over and over again. I could not strike, even with the amount of bloodlust and hate I willed into my swings. Only then did I begin to comprehend the intricate laws of time, for there must be many. Arthas was not destined to die this day, I did not take part in this battle, I could do nothing to stop this. My blade fell uselessly from my hand, clattering to the floor. And then, the familiar tug at my essence.

I could not leave, not now, not without saying goodbye. I weaved my way through the conflict, made my way to my wife. Even standing in front of her, she could not see me, although she did stop her spells, looking up slightly, unbeknownst to her into my eyes. I bent forward, my lips brushing her phantom mouth as she gasped. I looked down, a thin blade extruding from her heart, crossing the short distance between us a piercing my own. But I did not feel a thing. She fell, her hands clutching at the pendent above her bosom, the delicate chain snapping, the silver amulet dropping from her hand and bouncing away across the plaza. My lip trembled, I wept as around me the battle raged, endless death encircling the entire island, the pull of Time beginning to hurt. I stepped over several fallen elves and looked down to where the teardrop of silver lay, refusing to leave this Time until one piece of my wife’s memory was in my possession. And Nozdormu be blessed, it worked. Every fibre of my being was adamant upon this one action, drawing the necklace through the veil and into my clasping hands, and on feeling the cool metal, vanished in a swirling mess of colour once more. Now I know why I could not find the pendant on Monica’s body. Because I had already taken it.

Once again, I grieved my wife’s death, and the passing of so many innocent lives for weeks before I glimpsed Silvermoon through a haze of purple, but it was different. Great machine’s of war were mounted upon its walls, monstrous contraption’s that spat bullets at speeds unthought-of. The gate warders have abandoned their glaives and shields, instead carrying guns, but not of Dwarven or Gnomish origin. These were distinctly Thalassian. Their uniforms were no longer the finery of their station, they wore metal helmets shaped like upturned bowls, rough clothing that looked uncomfortable. Men and women wore stranger clothes, the women wearing gowns that blossomed from their waist and fell in somewhat ungraceful manners to the ground, the men opting for long coats and silly hats with three corners. The golden filigree embedded into the buildings were gone, replaced with a grey coloured rock, the red glass domes and windows substituted with long windows of smoked glass. Everything was gloomy. No colour, no personality. No magic....

I lamented for days at the future of Quel’thalas, before spying a different concept, this one exuding magic even into Time through the most solidly built portal I had yet seen. The majestic spires had been raised to new heights, dragonhawks of all colours sweeping the skies, mounted by Farstriders and Magister’s alike. Children ran through the crowded streets, students being taught magic under the leafy expanses of the city’s wide avenues, and a small group of magi tending to the portal’s entrance, the people beyond thinking nothing of it. Silvermoon, making a portal into Time itself, plundering mysteries that in my time are only being dreamt of. I am sure one of the portal attendants saw me before I was thrown away from the shining vision and spat out of a rough tear into my office somewhere in the near past. I am almost home! Soon, very soon, I will Return.
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