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Category: World of Warcraft


I was once regarded as a diligent pupil. A mage of great potential and future. Nobody ever commented on my social graces. Fact is I’m something of an arrogant, egotistical, asshole. Those are my own words, there are people who would share their choice recommendation as alternative.

So, mark my confusion and shock when I was awarded commendations denoting my accomplishment as Ambassador. Shock -and- Confusion.

I accepted, graciously. But I assure you, I have no idea what to do with it. Everywhere I go now, “Good Morning, Mister Ambassador.” or “Ambassador Telinthos, may I speak with you?”

Thankfully I spend most my time in obscure regions fighting creatures better forgotten. It’s surprisingly peaceful in those dark places.

Squire, yes I named him Squire, suggested I comment on my return to Stratholme. I refuse. There’s nothing to be said.

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Well Read

Telinthos stood in the libraries of a dungeon nestled under Caer Darrow casually paging through a tome highlighting the history of Quel’Thalas. His eyes narrowed in concentration as he found a particular passage in Old Thalassian he was having trouble understanding.

“A little help here would be nice,” a female voice called out. Telinthos glanced up to see Xaniale locked in combat with a cultist, his poisoned dagger glancing off parries and a well used shield. Her hair swished from side to side as she danced a lethal pattern around her adversary, her breathing labored and brow glistening with sweat.

“Don’t play with your food, my dear.” With a flick of the wrist, a bolt of pure arcane energy coalesced and hurtled towards the cultist, striking him hard and sending the resulting corpse flying across the room. “It’s unsightly.” Telinthos turned back to the book, once again concentrating on the aged words within.

Scholomance, as it had come to be called, was a den of insidious machinations and dark gatherings. From one end to the other, every wall covered in shelves, every shelf in tomes and every tome in lore. Cultists dedicated to the Cult of the Damned gathered in covens, practicing their dark arts and exchanging information too dangerous to be expressed in open air. The dungeon environs humid and smelling of sweet death and rotting flesh turned Telinthos’ stomach and countered what little appetite he had earned blasting cultists into oblivion.

“I believe I’ve seen what I need. We can go now, ” he said, flexing his hands. “Dalaran?”

Xaniale nodded, cleaning her blade on the body of the man she’d just finished emptying the pockets of. “I need a drink and some food, care to join me at the Wayfarer’s Rest?”

“Splendid plan. Perhaps I can get a bath and a breath of fresh air while we’re there.”

A shimmering portal opened up, it’s doorway showing the bustling streets and clear skies of Northrend. Telinthos looked back once more to give Scholomance a disapproving glare and stepped through the portal.

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A Steed and an Elf

Telinthos stood there, arms folded, a look of concern on his face.

“How well trained?”

The man, a Sunreaver and Blood Elf considered his words carefully before responding.

“Each Dragonhawk is raised from hatchling meticulously. Only the most docile and manageable creatures are allowed to mature in our liveries. The others are released into the wild. We’ve been breeding them for years to supply the Silvermoon stables and offer an aerial alternative to the Wyvern the Orcs are so fond of.”

This had been going on for the better part of an hour. Telinthos had been distracted into discussion when the vendor offered him a fine flying steed at a distractingly low price. Something the man called ‘Champion Seals’ were offered as part of the reward for service around the Tournament and these could be redeemed for various goods. The Dragonhawk was among those goods for offer.

“And you’ll just let me have one of these for? What? One hundred and fifty of these little tokens” Telinthos held up one of the tokens in question, it’s face covered in the heraldry of the Tournament sponsors, the Argent Crusade.

The vendor nodded. “And you can take one of these fine creatures home today. Each one is battle tested to ensure your safety should you come to arms with foul creatures or members of the Alliance.”

Telinthos handed the man a small pouch. “You’d best be right.” The man handed Telinthos a small whistle in a simple leather cord. “Blow once to summon.”

As he walked outside he wondered whether he’d made a foolish mistake. Alternatively, there was little else at the Tournament that warranted using the tokens. He pulled the whistle from his pocket and blew into it gently. From the air, a simple bird-like cry broke the din of Tournament events happening around him. A serpentine form with wings of feather circled the pavilion twice before coming to rest nearby.

Telinthos approached carefully. Bigger than I expected, he thought. Putting one foot into the stirrup he swung himself into position and grasped the reins.

“Now we see how docile you really are.” he said, spurring the creature into the air.

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I cannot tell you how tired I am of proving myself to these people. Time and again I’m looked at like some common vagrant and regarded as a derelict insane person.

“I am Telinthos, of Silvermoon. Mage of the First Order.” That alone should convey my power, importance and my reliability. When I say I’ll do it. I mean it. No task escapes my ability, patience or determination.

Well. Except for that incident involving the girl. Or that giant in Zul’Drak. Or those goblins in Hellfire Peninsula..

Few tasks escape my patience. But I swear. If another one of these Tournament Fools regards me as another token Blood Elf fresh off the boat I’m liable to lose my patience and rain fiery doom upon their heads and tents.

I might be upset. It could be due to this inane woman and her vision of ‘help’. I’m here to assist in an effort against the Scourge, they smell worse than the Forsaken. Not gather firewood or fetch lost squires. Hell, I’ve got my own squire to keep track of. Speaking of which..

Regardless, I was getting tired. Three days in a row now, I am tasked with taking this bottle of foul-tasting liquid, rubbing it’s contents on my lips and kissing frogs. This will result in a maiden showing herself and handing over a sufficiently rare and unique sword.

Three Days In A Row. By this point, I’m certain the Maiden is getting tired of seeing me. I know I’m tired of kissing frogs. And on another point, there is a fine rack of weapons behind this insane woman, many of which bearing sufficient power as to be felt across the room by unaided eyes. I can feel their tingle from outside the pavilion tent, so surely she has to know what hang behind her.

With not more than a little frustration, I depart. I mount my carpet and take to the air, for the forest to the Southeast.

I did circle the camp once, briefly considered proper tactical placement of my most potent fireball such as to cause mayhem.

Ah, yes. I’m reminded by my Squire why I started writing. It is noteworthy that I have developed something of a drinking problem. Squire pointed this out when I pulled another tankard of stout from his pack whilst I was hurling Bolts of Arcane Destruction at a particularly unruly treant.

I was quite inebriated when I attempted to deny these claims. So inebriated I nearly fell over an edge and into some unpleasant looking magical vortex. “You may have a point.” I surrendered. And then I turned my Squire into a chicken. Briefly. He’s much too useful with hands.

I didn’t sober up until after we put that dragon to rest. And even then I woke up in Stonard with only the briefest hint of memory why. My purse did feel about thirty gold lighter and that innkeep was all too eager to bring me breakfast and have Azkari cleaned and fed.

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The ground shook. Shuddered. Snow drifted from it’s tenuous perch on branches and the cliff above him. Telinthos cautiously glanced up, shifting his feet ready to run.

To hell with these earthquakes.

Finding no excuse to flee, Telinthos continued scanning the valley below him. He watched carefully, invisibly, as Gnomish troops gathered in tidy regimented lines and assaulted their subterranean lair.

Now what could warrant such devoted attention. He wondered, watching as time and again their lines attacked and retreated, like ocean waves.

The ground shook again. Snow fell in larger clumps, trees swayed. Telinthos deftly pulled his rolled up carpet from his pack and took to the air. Below him the ground rocked and nearby, Black Rock Mountain erupted, spewing liquid hot magma into the air.

A deafening roar filled the air. A massive shadow unlike anything seen in a thousand years took to the air.

By the heavens, Silvermoon must know what I have seen.

Telinthos landed a short distance away, on the first stable piece of land he could find. The shaking had knocked loose years of snow and ice, showering the valleys in avalanche while the eruption was spewing ash and fire everywhere else. He intoned the words necessary, keys to reality and opened a portal to Silvermoon and stepped through, sealing the hole behind him.

Elder and student magi standing around him were shocked by his sudden appearance and the chill wind that followed his footsteps as the portal sealed behind him. Gathering his wits about him, Telinthos marched from the Arcane Library to the Palace chambers, down the hall a short distance. Two guards lowered their spears, barring his passage.

“Regent Theron is in Council and cannot be disturbed.”

“I must speak with the Regent immediately. I have urgent news that cannot wait.”

“You must wa-” the guards words were cut off. Telinthos, short on patience, waved his hand and a pulse of energy knocked the guards aside.

Telinthos regained his stride as he marched into the Council chamber.

Lor’themar Theron, Regent Lord of the Blood Elves and ruler of Silvermoon City stood in meeting with a Troll liaison from Orgrimmar. Regent Theron turned, a scowl building on his face. “What?” his voice deep with ire.

“Regent Lord, my apologies. I have news from Black Rock Mountain. A dragon of immense size has emerged from deep below ground. I believe Deathwing has returned.”

Lor’themar stood. His face an unreadable wall of calm. “Very well. Please depart.” and turned back to the Troll standing with him.

Telinthos walked back down the hallway into Silvermoon City. The fools will likely fail to act and we will lose everything. Again. Glancing around Silvermoon one last time, Telinthos unfurled his carpet and took to the air.

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Tired and weary, the days’ travel behind him. Telinthos pulled a jug of fine Dark Iron mead from his packs and drank from it heavily.

Watching as his Dranei blue skin started to fade slowly and return to the pinkish hue of his elven origins, he mused.

“I’m going to miss the tail.”

“I won’t. Nor the hooves.” Savandra remarked as she adjusted, searching for a comfortable way to sit. The shapechange masking their bodies took the greatest toll on her. Probably because this was her first change and likely the last.

Having completed their foray into scouting Alliance battle strategy and economic position, Telinthos had enacted the ritual magicks necessary to undo the polymorph binding his form to that of a broad-shouldered Dranei.

“Well, at least you’re not gaining five feet of height. Try being a Gnome for a while.”

“Pass.” she commented, finally giving up and laying upon her belly. “This will be done in the morning?”

“Long before then, but you’ll want to be asleep or drunk for the transition. It can be disorienting, at best.” Telinthos pulled another jug from his pack and handed it to her. “It’s no kungaloosh, but it does the trick.”

Telinthos took a long pull from the jug, emptying it’s contents into his belly and threw himself to the ground to sleep off the effects as his mind slipped from it’s precarious grasp on reality into the spiraling whirlwind of inebriation.

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I flew into the encampment with a hint of unease. I had and had not been there before ever. My old life behind me like a morning fog, I landed my carpet and took to foot before the Argent Pavilion.

“Name?” a guard asked, as he eyed me suspiciously.

“Uurem Antaridos, of Exodar.” I recounted, strange sounding to me yet impulsive and as natural as walking or breathing.

The Pavilion wasn’t anything special. A collection of supplies in crate flanked the main entrance, a notary and commander before me with pews to my right and yet more supplies to the left.

The commander, wrinkles creased her face, sighed heavily before looking up. “And you are?”

And again I repeated by impulse more than control. “Uurem of Exodar” The notary took this information into his ledger, many pages in and well worn from travel. “Mage?” she said, her gaze passing over the fine cloth I called armor and a blade that spoke volumes to my journeys and abilities. I nodded.

“Report to the Silver Covenant on the other side of the grounds.” and she turned back to some report she had been examining moments before.

The air back outside was cool. I hadn’t noticed immediately, but Icecrown was one of those places you bundle up tighter than others, where the wind comes in off the sea and lashes at you, biting your ears and lips.

I trod along the encampment, making note of vendors hawking refreshments, a central coliseum housing a mighty tournament by the sounds of the roaring crowd. The steps before the Silver Covenants tent was flanked by mounts tethered. Nightsaber, Elekk, Horse and Ram all tied to their post awaiting master to return.

Everything seemed familiar and yet new. Like visiting a village after many years growth, seeing faces after a long vacation.

The arrangement inside was spacious. A large central area for prospective members to gather, accept tasks and hold audience and separate berths for a representative of each city to gather. Notable in it’s strangeness was the Gnomish representative for Gnomeregan, which I’d come to understand was under siege and in ruin.

I spoke briefly with Colosos, of Exodar, to introduce myself and gauge his reaction to my perceived origins. He merely nodded and wished me luck in my aspiration before beckoning me to speak with the orator in the center of the tent.

Another bureaucrat who took my name, only this one then issued me tasks to complete before I should return.

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..and again

Waking up in the Exodar was a strange experience. Being underground, but unlike the Undercity. The ceilings were high, the chambers well-lit. Very little of the surroundings were unfamiliar and yet comforting.

Guards greeted him as one of their own, shopkeeps sold their goods unaware of the truth.

Even this person didn’t fully remember. A necessary precaution in the spellcraft, to prevent prying minds from unraveling his secrets. Another five years under the guise before Silvermoon would ever be called home.

Five years as Draenei.

As he sat down in the nearest Inn, opting to drown his confusion in several pints of the strongest drink, he encountered a sharp pinching pain.

Yes. The tail would take some getting used to.

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And Back Again

He had met her in the Frozen North. They had traveled the tundras, plundered tombs and slaughtered fel creatures great and small.

It was when the mage spoke, that he spoke to them both. The enchantment would be more than polymorph and something less than illusion. They would journey together, witness changes in the Alliance. A coming storm was rumored, changes in the world, and the Silvermoon council wanted news. It was willing to risk dearly and pay heavily for it’s intel.

And so, geared and prepped, Telinthos and Savandra met a small cadre of mages deep in Eversong Woods, far from prying eyes. In those woods they stood in a circle of dust and energies, bathed in the transition.

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Telinthos gazed over the encampment. Vendors hawked their wares, combatants adjusted their armors and checked weapons, anticipation gleaming in their eye. He reached to his side, to an impossible small set of pouches and pulled a small roll. With a flick, that roll was cast into the air unfurling and expanding.

Telinthos leapt into the air and landed on the carpet. It’s tassels glinting with energies and fine embroidery. In a moment he was off, wisked over the Stormpeaks and down the mountainsides to Zul’Drak.

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