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Lysimachus

The Hermit of Dynastus Hall

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*tap*

*tap*

Silence.

*tap tap* *CLACK*

"Hrmph." Lysimachus withdrew his pipe from the nearby table, upon which he had been intermittently tapping. With this motion, the great Hall was again totally silent, the family's attendants having left for their homes or turned into the estate's expansive servants' quarters.

He drew a long puff from the pipe, glancing momentarily at his half-empty glass of milk and vodka. His eyes narrowed. "WELL. I do rather enjoy the quiet! It's very AGREEABLE. Yes."

Dynastus Hall, at one time, had been a veritable mecca of sonorous outbursts and activity. However, one by one, its inhabitants began to dissipate -- first Exanimo, the faggoty and oft-disregarded nephew. Eventually, Libelle left to settle with her new husband, Demitri Sunsworn. "And Cale..." Lysimachus sighed. Calestra dej Dynastus, his adopted niece and occasional lover, was more often than not tending to her roguish pursuits than spending time at home. "Well, probably for the better, ANYway."

The most recent departure from the Hall, however, was that of his sister, Sabeinne -- their late-evening Tea had always kept the Marquess' nights busied. Now, instead, she was absent, spitefully acquiring an apartment in Dalaran City.

"And good RIDDANCE, too. I mean," he quickly flung a bejeweled hand to one side, probably for personal empowerment, "I never really liked her, honestly!" He puffed again at his tobacco, blowing several small smoke rings. "Mumsy and FATHER didn't have any RIGHT leaving her with me."

He glanced around the parlor, the only lights being the dim fluorescent green of the ever-present fel crystals. His gaze settled upon the great door on the opposite end, the inital adornments of the library which also served as Sabeinne's bedchamber. His sight lingered several moments upon the portal. "Walking. A walk would be quite agreeable." Lysimachus articulated a brief incantation, magically dropping two large quilts over the crystals.

Darkness smothered every corner and the gloomy mage rose, slowly meandering toward the Hall's over-arching exit to the Royal Exchange.

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Antiquitar wandered through the dim streets of Silvermoon City, apparently without direction and apparently without purpose. Having come upon Dalaran in his travels through Northrend, he thereby discovered the modern wonder of "portals." Now, he was trapped in a foreign town, with nothing but his and his demon's wits to survive by.

The warlock felt a slight tugging at his cloak. It was Bizmir, as usual. "Mister Antig," the imp asked, "we've been here a real long time. It's dark and..." The tiny creature looked down. "I just don't like the way these people look at me."

The creature's master glanced around. He couldn't say for sure where they were -- all the signs were written in some form of fancy cursive he couldn't comprehend. "Well, Sam," he started, scowling at a shifty-looking elf as they passed by, "dis'n part'a town's lookin' all nice-like." He motioned toward the extravagant fountains on either side. "Ahm'a tinkin' we's whurr dem rich ulff's is libin'."

Bizmir frowned. "I don't know what that means."

Antiquitar laughed. "Hurr! Iff'n yer's payin' 'ttention, Sam, den you'da see'd th'ULFFS is MAGIC. Naw, ahm'a not gun' be sayin' magic's all rull 'n shiz, but iff'n it is, den dese rich ulffs be makin' us fly back'ta Northrend." He nodded and pointed triumphantly at Bizmir, confident in his explanation. "Whurr we be fightin' da Lickin' King 'n gittin' ma pigs!"

While thumping down the street, the orc had been lacking in the amount of attention he paid to his surroundings. With a simultaneous FURKKIN'DAMN! and What the god-helling HELL?!, he found himself on the ground, caught in a tangled mass with an equally-distracted Blood Elf.

Reacting in the best way he knew how, Antiquitar reeled back an enormous arm and began to pummel his would-be assailant.

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"What th-.... NOOOO!" With unexpected agility, the Marquess dej Dynastus whipped out his cane, shielding his already-bloodied face from the insane orc who had stumbled into him. "Get the hell off of me! Good GOD!"

*CLACK CLACK*

The mage cracked the ornately crafted rod into his adversary's head, forgetting (as he does) that his ability in the Arcane would probably serve him in a better capacity.

"Guaaards! HELP ME! I'm being ASSASSINATED!"

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"Sheldon, I do wish I had the answer...alas, all is in vein," said Elder Nahumarii to his Brewfest Kodo named Sheldon. The kodo seemed to gruff in a semi-depressed manner as he and Nahumarii walked through the gates of Silvermoon City.

"Come along, now. I am sure you need some rest," Nahumarii said, setting forth a bellow of laughter afterwards. "In a simple phrase that I believe we can both agree on, getting old sucks," He said once more as he had been saying for these past several years now. Nahumarii bid Sheldon a good night's rest as he left him outside the gates of the City. He took our his pipe, stuffed it with rather wilted leaves, and lit it with the end if his figner as he trotted along the lonely streets. So much was storming through his mind; all of his past memories were falling back into place after so many years of trained forgetting. Alas, it was no matter. He merely smiled and walked on.

As the Elder walked forth at a slow, serene pace, the cries of a "Help me! I'm being ASSASSINATED!" rung through his head. He heaved a massive sigh, and hurried along to find the orc and the elf in some form of brawl. Nahumarii stood, his mind slightly boggled as who to aid. Making a hasty decision, he runs up towards the two and grabs the elf by the collar of his robe and the orc by his shoulder.

"I know this is not my farce, but pray tell me what in the name of the Earthmother is going on," he commanded, eyeing the two previously brawling adversaries.

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Antiquitar, several large bumps beginning to protrude on his skull, jabbed a gloved hand toward Lysimachus. "Th'furkkin' ULFF gun dun 'n tried t'be stealin' ma moneyz!" He shook the Elder's hand off, motioning to a spot of ground beside the group. "Ahm all warkin' on th'street 'n th'ulffs JUMPIN' on me, li'l slithery hand tryin' t'get" he pats on the side of his robe "to m'purse!"

Bizmir, until this point hopping from one foot to the other and shrieking, began to calm down. He, too, extended a long, bony finger toward the Marquess. "He tried to kill Mister Antig with his, his... with his really bad ElfenKillStick!"

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"WHAT?! Steadying himself and rising, the mage snarled, wiping his face with a fine, silken sleeve. "NOoooOOooo! That... that hideous green CREATURE leapt upon me, entirely unagitated!" He scowled, swiping his cane in a sharp diagonal motion. "You have it on HIGH authority, Tauren, that the ORC is an assassin, probably sent by the Baroness WINTERL-"

Lysimachus stopped, his hands shooting to his face and covering mouth, eyes wide as silver dollars. "I. ERM." He quickly looked around for any signs of others overhearing the slip. "I NEED to return to my HOME." Callously waving a hand toward Antiquitar, the mage spoke once more before he fled. "DISPOSE of this waste, cow."

He vanished.

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Nahumarii blinks a few times at the raging elf, and remains perfectly motionless. He watches the elf walk off, and turns to the orc.

"...uhm...either...he was on to mubh Bloodthistle...or there was soem misunderstanding. I am fairly certain you were not trying to assassinate him," he says, a boggled expression spread across his face. "Do you know who that was, by chance?..and did he really call me "cow"?!.." he asked, rubbing his forehead. He mumbles something about him wanting to resemble less of a cow and more like a fierce Elder.

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Calestra entered the silent and dark Hall noiselessly, taking in the dull glow from the crystals covered by quilts. The glow of her own eyes seemed bright in comparison. Resting her hand on the frame of the arching doorway she released a tempered sigh. It really was quiet here. Libelle with Demitri, Exanimo.. who knew where, and Sabeinne in Dalaran. Cale had hoped to spend a little time with Lysimachus after the servants had retired but as he was absent...

Moving towards the chair in the room, she saw the half emptied milk and vodka glass, and the flickering glow of the pipe ash. "Tch," She made a face. She must have just missed him. Lifting her gaze from the side table towards the hall way that led to the bedroom, she closed her eyes. Cale had been raised away from the Sunwell, and as such, her inherent addiction had been tempered. She did not thirst for magic as some did, but rather, could feel the presence of those who wielded it often and powerfully. Like Lysimachus, and her brother.

No, he wasn't in his bed room. Resting her hand losely on the hilt of her dagger, she sighed again.

" - I'm being ASSASSINATED!"

With a jerk, Cale whirled towards the doorway. A familiar voice - or was it? It had been muffled by the large and thick oak doors that shut the Hall in. Wrinkling her nose, wishing she could sense those who used magic in a wider range, collasped into the arm chair.

It wasn't long after Cale had taken her sharpening stone and cloth out of her bags and begun to work on her daggers that a mage suddenly appeared - or rather, slammed the large doors shut. Lifting her green gaze, eerily bright in the dark room, and raised an elegant brow.

"Enjoy your outting, Lysimachus?"

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Lynillia tossed and turned in bed. Even with a mostly empty house, it was difficult to sleep because of Lysimachus' rantings.

"Damn filthy elf," she said. "Always yelling about something."

She sighed and got up, putting on a robe. She wandered out of her room toward the noise, and saw her boss covered in scrapes.

"Oh, dear," she said. "Do you need some bandages? Or are you just going to let those fester?"

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Antiquitar shook his head, pairing the motion with a loud harumph! "None Antig knowin' why's any ulffs is all crazin' 'round 'n tryin' t'kill all us good'n's." He sighed, tenderly rubbing at one of the raised bumps on his forehead. "Dey's wantin' t'rulin' th'Hurde, 'nyways. Duntchyer worryin', Horns," he turned to the tauren Elder, now smiling, "we'll gun' dun'n git'em in dey's arse one o'dese days, yuh?"

Bizmir hopped forward to interrupt, still panting from his previous shrieking terror. "Mister Antig, we still need to find a way out of here!" The imp's eyes grew wide as silver pieces. "What if that elf sends over some SPELLBREAKERS?!"

Antiquitar raised an eyebrow, apparently unaware of the term. "Th'girl's right, i'ma tinkin'. Horns," he continued speaking to Nahumarii, "yer knowin' howsabout we's gittin' outta dis perfoomey ulff-hole?"

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Nahumarii chuckles as he continues to smoke on his pipe, looking around the overly-frilly city. "Elves are mysterious creatures, friend. I have never understood them, nor do I ever wish to. As far as getting out of here, I know how to get to the Undercity. If you go to the very northern tip of the city, where the Reagent Lord is, there is an Orb of Translocation within the very back of the building. Activating said orb will take you to the Ruins of Lordaeron, and right outside are zeppelin stationing area things that will take you to Orgrimmar, Grom'Gol, and I think the Howling Fjord. I will show you the way," said the Elder, begining to march northward on the streets.

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