Beating Hearts and Pulsing Souls (Closed ATT)

[Smoldergear]

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The grandiose city of Dalaran is the crowning jewel of Azerothian metropolises. It’s vibrantly tipped spires pierce the heavens from its floating perch like daring, dainty fingers flaring dismissively in the face of a deity. Each alabaster building is draped tastefully in cool-hued silk banners, and adorned generously with gold and ice-blue crystals. Some Sin’dorei harlots could only wish to be as decorated and thought about as this city. Even the “forgotten” Underbelly, beneath all its discarded, rainbow-colored sludge and dimly sparkling spider webs, reveals the careful hand of a master architect. And everywhere, everywhere, everywhere, stares the Eye of the Kirin Tor.

But for all its magical construction, the true lifeblood of Dalaran is its people: both its residents and its visitors. They flow in and out of its streets and shops, taking care of the day, preparing for the future. Running from the past. They animate this city of stone and metal, cloth and gem. Without them, all of its adornments would be wasted. Much the same as dressing up a corpse for a ball.

One particularly enigmatic being is an elderly human named Jak McGannan. Or Christoph Banks. Or Taman Fordring, the estranged and long-forgotten brother of Tirion Fordring. Or a myriad of other names, depending on the day of the season and the placement of the sun in the sky. His worn face is sparsely crowned with spry, grey hair. His frame is all sinew and bone. His armor, mismatched and clanky.

Oh, but his bearing! To watch him lord from shop to shop, demanding payment for the services of his estate... one could almost believe him sane. 'Till you overhear his payment demands. A handful of yarn lint from the Talismantic Textiles. Two crusts of cheese from One More Glass. A cracked vial from Agronomical Apothecary. The shopkeepers of Dalaran didn’t quite know what to make of him when he first arrived, and eventually decided he was some eccentric one-man entertainment show, often handing over a generous tip with what ever odd, worthless bauble he asked for that day.

[Smoldergear]

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Their inclination was no where near reality, of course. He had been found wandering around Zangermarsh, in Outlands, by two Kal’dorei: A Priestess of Elune, and a Druid of the Grove. They initially thought him to be a kindred spirit. What, with the way he spoke to the plants and inhabitants of the marsh, encouraging them to grow ever skyward, ever stronger. But it quickly became apparent that this poor, unfortunate soul was simply that: a poor, unfortunate soul.

They spent three months in Zangermarsh with him, trying to diagnose and remedy what ailed him. But even with their combined millennia of experience in the physical and metaphysical healing arts, they could find no such cure for him. After a bit of debate, the pair decided that whatever cursed him was so deeply spelled into his system that only a mage with extensive knowledge in healing remedies would be able to lead him down the path of recovery. Fortunate for him, they knew just the mage for the job. Who just so happened to owe them a favor or two.

Ainion Blazecure, an Elven Kirin Tor mage and alchemist, did an admirable job of hiding his disdain when the pair of Kal’dorei traveled to Dalaran with the singular purpose of leaving their little project in his care. Unfortunately for our poor soul, Blazecure found himself being devoured by the wrong end of a dragon a short time later. And since Blazecure was the sort of being who rarely considered things beyond what needed to be done at the moment, he never informed anyone of the human’s plight. Nor did he ever take any notes that could be found among his belongings. The pitiful human was left to his own devices, wandering around the city of Dalaran much the way he wandered around his own, delusional world.

[Smoldergear]

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The Human's wanderings were not just a source of entertainment for the shopkeepers of Dalaran, but also a source of amusement - or nuisance - for Dalaran's visitors. Recently the Human quite literally found himself attached to a Gnome. However, to his mind, she was simply his page. It was truly the place of a page to always be a step behind his or her benefactor, was it not?

In truth, the Gnome had gotten the skirt of her robe caught in the strap of his right greave after he nearly stepped on her. She was then forced to keep up with his gate or be dragged behind him. This resulted in a curious pattern of movement for the Gnome. She sprinted forward with each stride of his right foot, and was only given a short time to figure out how to pry her robe free before having to sprint forward again. This jagged little dance was accompanied by a lovely, chirpy chorus of "Excuse me? Just a moment please! Pardon, sir!?! Excuse me!?! SIR?!?"

The Human, of course, was oblivious.

When he rounded the corner to the Trade District, the unfortunate Gnome in tow, a troop of several Trolls and a few Goblins caught sight of the debacle and - after a moment's pause - broke out in ruckus laughter. The Human mistook their hand-raising and knee-slapping as applause and cheering for his arrival. So, as any good noble would, he blessed them with a nod and a wave of his hand. The troop answered with another bout of ruckus laughter.

The Gnome, in her embarrassment, was not so amused.

She narrowed her eyes and snapped two fingers of one hand. A fireball suddenly exploded into being right in front if the Human's face, causing him to stop mid-stride and cry out. After he recovered from the sudden shock, the Human stared at the fireball, near cross eyed. And somewhat confused. The fireball then began to bounce in the air, swirling around in simple patterns. As it dazzled him, his expression turned from perplexed to amazed. Mouth and eyes wide, his head followed in unison with the fireball's movement... up until the point it turned into a puff of smoke, revealing an angry Gnome face staring up into his own.

He shut his mouth, and smiled.

"Well, hello there, little girl. What's your name?" he asked.

"Mala, and I'm not-"

"It's of no importance," he cut in as he deftly removed the hem of her robe from his greave. "I'm afraid I have no dollies or candies for you, and there are matters to attend. Run along now!" And with that, he strode off down the street.

The Gnome, mouth agape, stared after him.

[Smoldergear]

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Malahia Smoldergear - or Mala, as she is wont to be called - is not one to stick with emotions such as anger or annoyance for terribly long. Her dropped jaw slowly closed, and her emerald-green eyes began to take on a speculative gleam as she watched the Human boldly stroll into Legendary Leathers and demand a fresh pair of rhino hairs from Grand Master Marks.

I will call him George, she thought.

As she considered this George, her two, tiny, four-fingered hands reached up to her coal-black pig-tails and fluffed them ever larger. It is a subconscious gesture, developed after years of working around beings much larger and obtuse than herself. A form of self-preservation used to preempt any painful experiences due to those who are neglectful in noticing anything with a lower altitude than their own kneecaps.

It seems a successful tactic, if the state of her pale skin is a testament to anything. Not a mark or a bruise or a scar, nor a hint there-of, can be seen upon any of her exposed fleshy bits. Even her hands are perfectly and precisely manicured, clear of any defect. An oddity for a creature who's true joy in life comes from tinkering. One could almost imagine her bent over a work table, donning well-fitted goggles and gloves, her hand movements as instinctive and precise as they are now: smoothing the folds of her deep red and purple robes over her tiny frame, righting the disheveled bits George had left in his coarse release of her garment. Her eyes, though, remain trained on him.

She nodded her chin once, sharply, as she concluded her thoughts about George. She then lifted a hand to her shoulder, palm open and faced up. Almost as if she expects someone to hand something to her, though no one around her seems to know her, much less pay her any mind.

[Smoldergear]

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A slim, unassuming notebook - or what would appear to be an unassuming notebook, if it were not sailing through the air and leaving a dispersing trail of multicolored sparks behind it - flew to her hand and stopped there, hovering. She lowered her right hand, guiding the book along with it, and sort of... placed it in the air before her. It floated at a height that would be quite comfortable for reading. Or writing.

Whispering a few words of arcane persuasion, she fanned the fingers of her left hand. Her notebook opened in response, the mirrored fanning of its ephemeral pages nearly lost in its sudden flare of incandescent light. As it settled, one noticed that it didn't consist of any pages at all, but seemed to be a multitude of written words dancing in the air just above the binding. There was a pattern there, and Mala both searched it and directed it with whispers and finger-waiving.

The upward illumination of her normally cherubic features gave her an air of madness as she did so. Her sudden frown didn't help that appearance much, either. A red blinking light had caught her attention, reflecting harshly in her eyes. She shook her head at it, mumbling something about intruders and security and later before using the very tip of a finger to select the floating text she was looking for. Social Justice, it read, flaring beneath her touch.

As the dancing text settled quietly down to a near empty, waiting "page", Mala traced her finger along the right edge of the notebook's binding, drawing a long, translucent quill from from it. Its "feather" fell open into its full, rainbow-pastel glory as she grasped it properly for "writing" in her notebook. She twirled it in her fingers, spinning the feather around once, before inscribing her thoughts.

There is progress in the quest to remind certain Humans of Gnomish Importance. I have found the perfect Test Subject today. The effects of Training Helmet 3G-Beta could not adversely affect this one any more than he already is.

Mala had another sudden thought, and lifted her head to narrow her eyes in the direction of the congregated Trolls and Goblins, now laughing and chatting quietly with each other, before jotting it down:

Consider procuring other Test Subjects among the lesser developed species.

The glance had not gone unnoticed by the troop, who had gone silent and now stared daggers at the preoccupied Gnome.

[Sabeinne]

((I love your use of screenshots...soooocool.))