Within his office, nestled beside the highest alizarin-capped peaks of Silvermoon, Knight-Lord Malanias Dawnstar looked down upon those who looked down upon others. Brazen-haired and statuesque, he stood against the clean flow of afternoon air that flushed across his creased cheekbones and aquillian face. It coursed, unaffected by the twisting rise of the red miasma that slipped from his parted lips and the bit of his blue-glass pipe upon the windowsill.
The elf brought the snaking bit of his pipe to his lips for the tenth time, and toked. Drinking his fill, the hero of Silvermoon’s thick, war-calloused fingers—caked in streaks and lines of his own blood—guided the shaft from his mouth. He lowered his hand once more, and delicately placed the instrument back beside the assorted fragments of sanguine-stained glass strewn across the pale window’s ledge.
For an elf who allowed each new day to sweep him vicariously along with it, today Dawnstar uncharacteristically had found himself planning intensely for what may be his last few hours. He had planned, he had acted; his secrets were secure. This was his rightfully-earned reprieve for his geniusness— the window just got in the way of that.
Today, however ordained no such luxury without a cost. It was proclaimed that he had not his usual leisurely hour to look, nor savour, nor judge those who scurried beneath the shadow of his spire. The ‘thistle at hand— a wise and trusted companion— begged to differ, and he was an elf more inclined to acquiesce to the whims of his toxic mistress than that of joyless Aunt Prudence. Instead, he allowed himself the rightfully-earned delight of a view.
And a fine view it was at that.
Every inch of Silvermoon was Malanias’ in some way. His knightly brothers and sisters had joined the Fallen, all for her glory. The loss of their lives diminished his own, and he deserved recompense for it. The richness of each inhalation delivered upon him the grace of lucidity. A lucidity that informed him that the fel-driven defenses of the spires above Shepherds Gate, would shrink into the palm of his hand as his payment, if he were but reach out and will it so.
As it so happened, he did, indeed, will it so.
A thrice rapping of metal upon wood brought Malanias’ attentions away from his city, from the rise of his outstretched fingers towards the horizon. Drawing them instead to the broken door of his office. There stood Littlesun, his knuckles pressed against the doorframe, his own felfire eyes searching out the private workspace of one of the most powerful elves in the Regency.
Blood Knight Sarin'teal Thondroril, his father’s most trusted retainer, and Malanias’ most obedient brother; the byproduct of a fortuitous marriage into the family. He could be trusted— the old rumours be damned. It would not be long before this old relic of the Sunstriders was sent to die with the others in Northrend anyway. Perhaps he could milk one last favour from him, before signing the papers to ensure that timely outcome. Although the years had seen Sarin’teal’s servitude to the Dawnstars expire, some beasts do not forget the intoxicating scent of loyalty, or of the addictiveness of a master’s approval.
Malanias, straightened, spun and directed Sarin’teal an approving smile, as parchment whipped across the dark-stone flooring between them “Sir Thondroril, I’m fantastic, but nevermind me, how are you?” he clucked merrily.
The elf at the doorway emitted a stifled huff of amusement, his taut expression turning to and fro between each devastating detail the broken room possessed “You may be fantastic, my lord, but the circumstances you find yourself at the epicentre of...” the knight stepped forwards, nudging the the bottom-half of the splintered doorway aside with his leather boot “...are, mh, less-so. You really should consider the repercussions of your actions, before you kill an elf, Malanias.”
The younger elf bristled beneath the uncouth assumption “I didn’t-”
“Then...” the lesser elf interrupted with a rise and rapid roll of his wrist, encouraging the point “…you require my aid, again.” Sarin’teal smiled softly, his tone a drawl to weight down the tail-end of his words.
With a swift motion of his arm, Malanias directed towards the source of all of his recent misfortune “My father loved you, Sarin’teal.”
His underling whipped in response across the room, snatching up the inconspicuous lockbox from the three-legged office table “And I him,” the elf responded, taking his abrupt leave.
With the departure of Littlesun, Lord Dawnstar’s shoulders rose, lifted from the burden of the lockbox’s contents, and he returned his attentions to his city.
Within his office, nestled high above the canopy of decorate vermillion stonework, Master Sarin’teal Thondroril looked down upon those who looked down upon others. From the comfort of his relocated desk beside the clear-glass window, he watched, and he mulled over the events of the past twelve hours.
For an elf who planned his days so very well, this one in particular had veered into the realms of unexpected ease. He wondered, or caught himself wondering, if it was the guiding hand and will of the Regency that directed Fortune to cross his path as she did. Rightfully so that he disregard such notions, for it was his own hand that guided the quill to sign the papers before him, just as it was his own will that scrawled his lettering of approval to the lawful termination of Knight-Lord Dawnstar, for the crime of high treason.
He looked upon Silvermoon as Knight-Lord had done, and he saw a machine. Musical thunderings, wires, streets, of pulsing energy. Life, flowing with the beating arcaneworks of elven progress. However there was something terribly wrong within the very core of the city. Weakeness resided in the abject selfishness of his people. It thrived beneath elves like Malanias Dawnstar, as a fleshy cancer upon the perfect sterility of thalassian society. But just like Dawnstar, they demand, they consume, and then they die.