Blakie13
Magister of Silvermoon
Despite the gloomy, overcast skies above, Dalaran remained as busy and crowded as always, despite the Legion threat. Selarion stared out the window of the small restaurant, reminiscing. He had done a considerable amount of his magical education in this city, albeit when it was more than just the city centre, when it had instead been a bustling, expansive metropolis, the largest city-state in Azeroth. Meager in comparison to its neighbours in the Alliance, but nothing to balk at. Several tragedies had lead to its decrease in size and... relocation over the course of only a few years. And yet, Selarion mused, he still managed to find his favourite restaurant.
The owner, an elderly human of considerable luck, had survived through all these tragedies and had even managed to easily rebuild his business, in nearly the same location, after its destruction during the Third War. The Magister adored it, filled as it was with quaint human designs and magic. Dark woods, and deep red carpets. A "classy pub" as Cavarus had noted when they had gotten dinner together here. The Gilnean appeared to like it, claimed it was nostalgic. Made sense, considering the owner hailed from Silverpine.
And now Selarion waited for his companion, sitting in a booth by a large window. The establishment was not all too crowded, for which the Magister was thankful. He had been surprised by Sorellan's invitation, although he was pleased all the same. The other Magister seemed an interesting sort; and he was Rivena's old apprentice. He carefully checked that the glamour disguising his staff was still intact. It resembled a typical staff held by members of the Magisterium: golden falcon wings, with intricate patterns along the haft and a ruby pommel. Beneath the magic, however, rested the Sceptre of Sargeras. It had resisted the glamour at first, and Selarion was worried he'd have to either leave the Sceptre behind or meet Sorellan in Dreadscar. Neither were great options, in his opinion.
At last, the Sceptre had obeyed. Meaning Selarion could continue to keep his cover. He could count only six people in Silvermoon who knew of his newfound position on the Council of the Black Harvest, and he was intent on keeping it that way. Rommath would never stand for it, after all. So now he waited, wondering where Sorellan might be.
The owner, an elderly human of considerable luck, had survived through all these tragedies and had even managed to easily rebuild his business, in nearly the same location, after its destruction during the Third War. The Magister adored it, filled as it was with quaint human designs and magic. Dark woods, and deep red carpets. A "classy pub" as Cavarus had noted when they had gotten dinner together here. The Gilnean appeared to like it, claimed it was nostalgic. Made sense, considering the owner hailed from Silverpine.
And now Selarion waited for his companion, sitting in a booth by a large window. The establishment was not all too crowded, for which the Magister was thankful. He had been surprised by Sorellan's invitation, although he was pleased all the same. The other Magister seemed an interesting sort; and he was Rivena's old apprentice. He carefully checked that the glamour disguising his staff was still intact. It resembled a typical staff held by members of the Magisterium: golden falcon wings, with intricate patterns along the haft and a ruby pommel. Beneath the magic, however, rested the Sceptre of Sargeras. It had resisted the glamour at first, and Selarion was worried he'd have to either leave the Sceptre behind or meet Sorellan in Dreadscar. Neither were great options, in his opinion.
At last, the Sceptre had obeyed. Meaning Selarion could continue to keep his cover. He could count only six people in Silvermoon who knew of his newfound position on the Council of the Black Harvest, and he was intent on keeping it that way. Rommath would never stand for it, after all. So now he waited, wondering where Sorellan might be.
