[RP Response] Into Dire Maul

[Solivar]

For the 2/10 Tavern Night attendees -- Your Mission, Should You Choose To Accept It:

Write a short piece on your thoughts/feelings/actions during the time you spend as the "honored guests" of Prince Tortheldrin in the Athenaeum of Dire Maul. Post your reactions here.

[Darren Tereos]

Jarrand Windspeaker, shaman of Steadfast and presently guest of the Shen'dralar of the Athenaeum, surveyed his sparse lodgings. While some might consider the ascetic life of the high elven arcanists barren, the simple room suited Jarrand's mood. There was much to contemplate on this eve and still more to go in solving the havoc wrought by the High Elven relic found by one of their member, the paladin Baranthore Sunstriker.

The clank of armor as he pulled free of his battle-garb seemed to break the stillness of the room. Jarrand spared a moment to clean a smear of foul-smelling ogre blood from his mace. Without a proper cleaning cloth, Jarrand made use of a stiff towel, smelling as if it had not been cleaned or used in many many years. The dried blood did not clean easily, but when done Jarrand was pleased enough with the effort and the results. The room was again eerily silent, save for the sounds from the small fireplace in the corner of the room.

Though the air was still, the earth moldering, and what water could be found, stale, the flames from the hearth burned with a life of its own. Shadows danced wildly about the room with the flickering of the fire and Jarrand leaned close to the flames, gathering warmth and hoping for answers to his questions.

“Does our path guide us true to this place?” Jarrand's voice was quiet, nearly guttural, but seeking.

At first, his only answer was the snap of firewood as it burned. But, Jarrand had learned patience when asking for answers from the elemental spirits. Time took a different pace for the elementals, who were older than recorded history. Jarrand waited, only stirring slightly to watch the shifting illumination of the tiny scars across his hands and fingertips, reminders of his youth. The lines showed a paler green over top of his sun-cracked skin. Frowning slightly, Jarrand returned his attention to leaping flames, praying silently for an answer.

Your quest is true, but your guide has another path to follow.

“The..the druid?” Jarrand's surety and conviction had dissipated when confronted with a solitary audience with the ancient spirits of the elements. Later the walls would return, mortared with riddle and idiom, but now he was unadorned in front of the spirits.

No, the druid follows his aims, in step with your own. The prince: he guards the library, but first he guards a prison. His heart holds steady to this; he will not help you at its expense.

“But will he harm us?”

The spirits of the dead in these halls did not come about by their own hands or hearts. But, he does not seek to hurt you or the brotherhood, but should you cross him you will find his rage all-consuming.

Nodding slowly, Jarrand intoned with a deep baritone, “I thank you, spirit of fire, for your audience and your guidance. I will always seek you only in need and with reverence.”

And, if you should feel so inclined, once you have finished in these halls, it would be a small thing to give the books over to the flames, they would make such delightful kindling...

Jarrand exhaled deeply as the flames returned to simple hearthfire, sighing at the hints of madness that had crept into the elements since the Shattering. Even when seemingly in a mood to respond as they once had to his entreaties, the balance had been as upset as the lands themselves.

Standing slowly, Jarrand walked to the bed. It was made with ancient linens and showed very little sign of having been slept in over the millenia. While the elven people were tall, they were built nothing like the orcs and the Windspeaker had suspicion that the guest accommodations might not be sturdy enough to accommodate his frame. Jarrand, pulled a pillow and a blanket and made a simple bed roll on which to lie in front of the fire. It had provided answers enough and, Jarrand hoped, would now provide enough warmth and perhaps, if the mood struck the Spirits, some warning should there be any danger in the night. With one glance toward the door, Jarrand closed his eyes and fell into reverie rapidly.

That night Jarrand Windspeaker dreamed of pyres of books, smelling like burnt flesh.