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About Menion

  • Rank
    Member
  • Birthday 12/31/1982
  1. Menion watched the withered hand as it's cold skeletal grasp withdrew from the warmth of his. Alacar's eyes accosted the Professor, pulling his gaze upward and holding it. He felt a magic tingle emanate from the white robed waif and his air glider. His eyes followed the thing as it caressed and slithered over its master seductively, making Menion ill at ease. The quip was mostly ignored due to the unsettling and mysterious nature of his colleage's appearance, and the familiarity of his voice. The wind picked up and howled menacingly through his hair, amplifying his rousing tension. "Right. Now, as to the matter of your wherabouts, current and..." he inflected his tone downward, "former." Regardless of what Alacar said, he knew that something exceptionally profane had occurred.
  2. <p>Good even, Marquess. /short bow</p>

  3. Menion turned slowly, squinting his eyes to see the face he knew so well, "... Pru? What are you doing in Hilta's room?" Where was Hilta? He looked to the sliver of light that came from under the door where Yza's feet had been, but the light was unfettered now. She was gone. "Yza, ah..." he closed his hand tightly and then released it. No, she had other duties, he was foolish for having expected her to stay. His expression grew desperate before her, tortured by the knowledge of what Yza endured because of him. But, now was not the time for pity of self. Pru's frail figure shrunk back, she was still very hard to see despite his eyes having adjusted to the sparse light. He held a hand out to her, "Pru, what's the matter, why do you shrink from my touch?" Pru and Hilta had always been very affectionate with him, girlishly so. Pru adored to simply sit and groom his hair, running her wooden comb through the ever long strands. "How could father have possibly thought you were his," she would often say, remarking at its color, "your hair is sterling like starlight, such is not Leah. It was vanity." Pru was the poet, the muse, the very well read and intelligent. What else can one do who has so little use of their body, but to read and acquire knowledge? Menion drew closer, pulling his robe up to kneel on the bed, trying to get a better look at her. She began to sob. "Pru? What happened to you? Please tell me." Unable to stop himself, Menion grabbed hold of her rail-like arms, his hands belying the calm of his voice. Pru tensed as he touched her, shaking her head in a frenzy and refusing to answer him. Immediately he thought of injury and patted the bed for any sign that she had been cut or was hemorrhaging, but found all to be clean and dry. He took a deep breath, relaxing himself so that she would not become more upset, and then ill. Oh how he wished it were Hilta, who was young and strong and unbridled with her words. He crooked his forefinger and ran it along the side of her shoulder as she trembled. "Prunella, my darling," he said in his most soothing tone, and in caressing that skeletal arm he touched something, a hair. He would have just discarded it had he not taken note of its lustrous texture and length. His brow quirked though he could not see its color in the dark. It was not her own hair. "Pru. Who was here?"
  4. <p>*Smiles gently* Good evening, Sir Leah.</p>

  5. <p><span style="color:#C0C0C0;">/kissed the lattice of her knuckle</span></p>

    <p><span style="color:#C0C0C0;">Good even, priestess.</span></p>

  6. Menion kept his distance, though clearly gave off a distinct vibe of distrust, "good to see you alive and well, yes?" Menion was a bit surprised, extending his hand out of courtesy and habit more than a genuine sentiment, still he'd never wish the man death. "Old friend indeed...", at least it seemed that way. Alacar was the sort of antagonist that could turn a man against himself, even the most simple conversations were often hidden under a veil of psychological warfare. Menion knew this full well as his hand stretched from its silk cuff, prepared to call a truce once again.
  7. "Identify yourself or flee now." Menion stopped dead in his tracks, a vial in each hand and a loose burlap case slung studiously across his chest. "Arianray?" he said the name before his mind had a chance to catch up with his mouth. His intense features softened for a moment, almost glad to see that his former colleague was alive, but then remembered their last meeting... Professor Leah relaxed his shoulders defeatedly, "Alacar, what are you doing out here?" gesturing to the massive crater behind him. " You do realize this area is restricted..." he squinted at the blasted earth, shaking his head at the obviousness of his question and then back to Alacar. He looked... surprisingly healthy actually, his threat even commanded a level of gusto that Menion had never seen before. The question hung in the silence as Alacar stared him down, the wraith's level of hostility almost tangible. Menion's eyes hardened, it becoming blatantly clear that Alacar didn't even recognize him, " where have you been, Professor?"
  8. He followed close behind her from the transport device and down the dark corridor lined with faintly glowing sconces. The Dalaran profesor; who was as cool and composed as the frost he commanded, fumed inwardly as he watched her dark metal frame swallow and digest the candlelight. Her whip-like hair lashed tauntingly at her armored back, almost daring him to grab hold of it. "Couldn't you just tell me?" he asked with a pleading air as the dark paladin continued to walk in silence toward the large spiral staircase. She paused at the foot of it to glance his way, two jade almonds penetrating through him. He weakened at her gaze which answered him, but not the question. Yzabelle was the type that preferred visual over audio, "a picture is worth a thousand words," she would say. It would make a man wonder at what she was like behind closed doors, which was often the case among subordinates and superiors alike. She wrought great influence by virtue of her commanding presence and physical ability in a world where men ruled the highest ranks of the military. No, she was not a feminine or beautiful woman, but she was powerful; which was almost more bewitching than sheer beauty. Menion was no exception with forehead cradled in hand, following her obediently as he had since boyhood. He grasped the twisted iron railing that spun upward with the grooved marble stairs, each slow step rung with many possibilities in his head. Perhaps someone with powerful magic, he thought, but who would know where to look and just the spot to stand? He tilted his chin up, Yza having already mounted the stairs, hearing her footsteps over his head. Menion stroked over the sides of his cheeks, taking his sweet time to think where there were no words. He preferred words and then action, all things needing to be planned and thought out logically. Though as he mulled over every possibility he found himself unsatisfied with each scenario. But before he had finished deliberating, he had reached the second story from the high vaulted ceiling. Yza could be seen at the far end of the hall, impatiently waiting at Hilta's suite. Menion stood wordless as she faced the door, her placement and drawn expression implying something awful which grew like a weed in his gut. Menion glanced at Yza who stood stately, waiting for him to investigate on his own. He wasn't so sure he wanted to know anymore. He stepped forward, passing her gaze, easing the already opened door. Forward he ventured into the suffocating black of the bedroom, leaving Yza in her dimension of light. With a hard lump in his throat, the middle aged professor allowed himself to be swallowed up by the pitch, half expecting to find a badly mutilated corpse or a demon. Damnit Yza, why couldn't you just tell me? He thought as his heart thumped against his sternum. On the far side of the room an extinguished candle-wick twinkled, making visible the powder jars and jewelry that adorned her vanity. He walked toward the tiny beacon so slowly it felt like an eternity, not wanting to see what awaited him in the dark. But just as he drifted his hand over the candle to snap his fingers... "Brother... d-don't."
  9. <p><span style="color:#C0C0C0;">Done, and done.</span></p>

  10. The sun began to rise over Lordamere lake, creating a mellow gold reflection on the water. A large turtle with a jigsaw back emerged from the clapping waves to greet the sun as it rose eastward, stretching its leathered neck from his shell. A hasty male voice cut the serene quiet of the early morning, a flurry of white and purple silk chasing the echo of his call. The rider and horse tore through the shallow water of the shore, causing the clumsy turtle to snap his head back and sink effortlessly beneath the waves. From a distance he appeared to be an old white-haired man, though he sat youthfully upright and with fluidity of joint. His face was dark, almost charred in comparison to his hair which hid its length under his violet and gold vestments. The great crater lay unexpectedly against the mossy grass and tall mountains, though he resided in the enchanted metropolis it still surprised him every time he visited its old nesting place. The rider and horse came to a slow jog, nearing the jagged quarry which still emitted a magic vapor. He looked around cautiously, hoping no syndicate followed. Rogues were like mages in the sense that they could conceal their presence whenever they wished. Menion always feared rogues more because they were not impeded by the emission and draining of mana energy. After scanning the scant trees that bordered the mountain range he brought his leg over the back of the horse and stepped down onto the barren cracked dirt. He let loose a rich sigh and prepared himself for work; his face youthful indeed and no longer belied by mere hair color. The white mare neighed at him indignantly as he wandered away from her, "be still Rosemary", he corrected softly, kneeling in front of his vial case, "your 'father' doesn't want to get a knife in his back while he collects samples, hm?" The horse seemed content with his response and hesitantly lowered her muzzle to the grass, though she too seemed wary of the quiet surroundings. The area around the crater was usually deathly still, the wild life seemed to instinctively avoid it. If anyone occupied the area it was usually a few suspicious magocrats from Dalaran. This morning there was no such activity, or so it seemed.
  11. <p>I must apologize, I had a bit of a swoon, I'll admit. Too much of the mana-tapping, I'd really have to say. You surely must understand how that goes.</p>

  12. <p><span>One of mine? Sir, you must be joking.</span></p>

  13. <p>Perhaps you might consider exercising some manner of control over the less... savory aspects of your household, Mr. Leah?</p>

  14. <p>And you... ah what was it? Referred to me as a, "hot dude."</p>