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Amber - Kirin Tor Interlude P.1
🕑 Added 2023-02-05 10:00:01 +0000 UTCFor the first time since King Terenas had, at last, allowed them to send a small group northward to investigate the plague in full, the Chamber of Air was filled again, with all six of the Archmages who made up the Council of Six present for a single meeting. It was rare that events called for their unanimous attention, rare that all of them held enough interest in a topic to be pulled from their studies and research to attend and listen to those that sought their guidance.
And just like that night Jaina Proudmoore had been sent north Modera could feel a frisson of fear coursing through her veins, the stars blazing with certainty as to what was to come. A great and tumultuous future looming on the horizon that spoke of upheaval and the betrayal of the betrayed.
Modera did not know what shape this future would take, not yet, but from the red eyes and distant gaze of the young Proudmoore and the stoic facade of the Lightbringer, she knew it was not to be a kind one.
"By the way the Proudmoore girl is crying, one might think the Prince has died," Drenden whispered, the words carried by the Chamber to Modera's ears and Modera's ears alone. His figure was shrouded and hidden, genderless and nondescript, little more than a shadow on a podium, and even his voice was made flat and indistinct. Yet she knew him still. "A tragedy has occurred, that much is clear."
"Perhaps," Modera whispered back, the lightest touch of magic carrying her words to him in turn. "But I think not, the stars still hold a great Destiny for Prince Arthas." Yet she was less certain of the truth of that now than she had been in the past.
Drenden's snort echoed in her ears. "You and your divinations." He said, then let the connection lapse.
Her fellow councillor had been her ally for the longest of times; her friend from before they had been elevated to the council. Even in those days when they were mere Adepts struggling to find their specialisations, their true calling, he had thought little of divination.
It was an old argument, and some small part of her wondered if she did put too much into her readings of the stars. None of her cadre had foreseen this plague... None within the Kirin Tor had.
"Lord Uther, Lady Jaina," Antonidas said, stepping forward from his place among them and allowing his shadowy shroud to fall. It was his prerogative as Lady Jaina Proudmoore was his former apprentice, and Lord Uther... was if not Antonidas' personal friend than a close confidant of the Kirin Tor. "I am sure I speak for all of us when I am glad you could make it here today, though I wish it were under better circumstances."
"We all wish it were so, Archmage," Uther said brusquely, his eyes staring straight ahead; as if at some distant thing only he could perceive. "And as I woke these last few morns I could hardly believe my own memories, the horror such as to be out of my worst nightmares."
Jaina Proudmoore took in a ragged breath, visibly shaken by whatever she had witnessed.
"There are many conflicting rumours that have spread," Kael'Thas said from his place amongst the council, the elven prince hiding himself from their guests. Almost a surprise considering his fondness for the sorceress in their midst. "I would be glad if the uncertainty could be put to rest, much has been said of the fate of Stratholme and yet few can agree on the cause. Demons, undead, plague, our very own Prince Arthas..."
"An absurdity." Ansirem interrupted. "We all know the character of the Prince, we hosted him here, and as–"
"It's true." Jaina Proudmoore said, her red eyes piercing as she stared at the shadowed figure of Archmage Ansirem Runeweaver. "It is true, Arthas, the Prince, he... he ordered that every man, woman, and child within the walls of Stratholme be... be..." She blinked slowly, her voice failing her.
"Purged." Uther spoke, a measure of finality and fury in his voice Modera had never heard before. This from the man who would seek diplomacy even with those orcs that ravaged the countryside. "He ordered that the city be culled to the last, that all within be put to the sword and flames."
"Told you there was a tragedy," Drenden whispered, though the words felt hollow. Even he would not have thought of this.
A dozen whispers passed back and forth between them all, shock and disbelief that the Prince could ever do such a thing. But for Modera, it made something lurking in the back of her mind come forward. An echo of something she had tried to forget, a girl so desperately pleading to be believed. A lost opportunity that had been stolen from her by a man she hadn't spoken to beyond the most rudimentary niceties of civil society since.
... Slaughtering the population of Stratholme...
"Infury frostaris sedaa," Modera chanted, flooding her mind with Arcane energy. Her thoughts quickened, her very perception of time changing, but more importantly, her memories sharpened. Clarity brought forth from one of the cornerstones of the Kirin Tor's power, the most potent spell in any mage's arsenal: Arcane Brilliance.
She felt the attention of her fellow Councillors turn to her, the surge of magic noticed by all, but she made no excuse for her action. She needed to remember.
Antonidas raised a hand and quelled the whispers, not into silence but to more reasonable levels.
"Perhaps it would be best to start at the beginning?" He said, something deeply tired behind his eyes.
Did he remember? Modera stared at her fellow Archmage, glared at him. She dearly, dearly hoped he remembered.
Jaina nodded and Modera quelled her anger, for the moment. The time for accusations and blame could come later.
"It began with an investigation into the village of Brill, where we first encountered the Undead of the Scourge and the infected grain..."
Jaina Proudmoore described her efforts alongside Arthas to fight their way through ogres and bandits to reach the village, finding the bridge cut off and those on the southern shore still alive – but unsure of the fate of those on the other side. Her descriptions of the ghouls, rotten things with hollowed-out rib cages eating the flesh of the fallen while covered with nought more than tattered bands of cloth turned Modera's stomach.
She dwelled on the Abomination, a monstrosity stitched together from the parts of a dozen corpses; as large as an ogre and yet made of mortal men and women. Its gleefully innocent joy as it sought to kill them.
And the grain, the infected grain which had poisoned the villagers and seen them raised as the undead. All under the command of the necromancer Kel'Thuzad.
... A Plague spread through Lordaeron, a Plague of Undead...
The damning tide of the report continues, the push through the grain distribution centre of Andorhol, finding that the shipments had been contaminated and spread far and wide across the Eastweald. That so many towns and villages would have fallen to the plague.
Putting Kel'Thuzad down, killing him and ending the threat of the cult, only to learn he had a master.
... Kel'Thuzad, Necromancer turned Lich, will be his right hand...
Modera was scarcely paying attention to the report as Jaina passed the reins over to Uther, who spoke on his relief force that the young Sorceress had called to Hearthglen to combat the risen dead that assaulted the township. Their subsequent journey towards Stratholme, where Mal'Ganis, the mastermind behind the Plague, was said to await. A clear trap they had little choice but to spring.
How they stopped outside the city to find the grain shipments had already arrived, that many of the populace had already consumed the grain and been afflicted with the Plague of Undeath, and how Arthas made his declaration. His decision. And killed them all.
The words rang through her head again, the slaughter of Stratholme.
Why? How could she have been so wrong? Why didn't she chase after the most promising apprentice she had ever had and drag them back to Dalaran to learn everything she knew?! Why did Antonidas have to throw her out before Modera could apologise for dismissing the girl's fears?!
"...And, after it was done, he, Prince Arthas, left with the first legion aboard the northern fleet," Jaina said, her voice cold and empty. "He chased after the Dreadlord and went to Northrend, seeking vengeance for... for the people he had killed."
"Lass," Uther said, laying his hand on Jaina's shoulder. "You can't blame yourself–"
... brought to Northrend, and corrupted...
Modera couldn't help it, she started to laugh. Tears of regret, anger, frustration, and despair rolled down her cheeks as she laughed. Her broken and wheezing cackles soon the only sound in the Chamber of Air.
She had friends who lived in Stratholme. She had family in that city. Her nephews were fishermen who worked on the docks, they lived simple lives catching fish and they had been killed because they hadn't listened! Because she hadn't listened!
They were dead, they were all dead, Aron and Kris and John and little Timmy and her uncle Tamlain and they were all killed by the prince she defended!
"How dare you." Uther snapped, the light flaring about him and warping the shadows that hid the identities of the council. "How can you laugh at this?" He thrust his hand at Jaina, who was herself incandescent with fury, hoarfrost forming at her feet upon the stone platform that floated high above the city. "A hundred thousand lives! Put to the sword! A Prince slaughtering his own people and you laugh?"
He strode forward, great plated feet clanging against the stone platform "How dare you make a mockery–"
"A mockery?" Modera yelled, dismissing her illusion and revealing her own tear-struck features. "A mockery?! Five years past a girl came to this city, a girl came to this city with a warning!" She aimed her staff at Antonidas, Astral power mixing with the chill of winter at its tip, "And he banished her! Threw out the most promising Astromancer this city has seen since I was an apprentice because she spread rumours about Prince Arthas!"
Modera gasped for air, struggling to control her voice. "And what were those rumours, those that I foolishly disregarded in that moment? That we were never given a chance to investigate because he chose to throw her out before the Prince came to study, to court romance, in our halls?!"
Lord Uther lowered his hand, his eyes still blazing with the light but he was listening. Not that Modera was paying any attention to him, no, her vitriolic gaze was aimed at Antonidas. The old Archmage, the face of the Kirin Tor, weathered it with a stony face.
They had begun a feud on the day Modera had discovered what he did, his decision to throw away her student, one she had an apprenticeship to, without even informing her, and it had not abated since. A crack in the unity of the Council kept hidden from view. Until now.
And all because he, unilaterally, invited the Prince to study in Dalaran. To aid the ill-fated romance of his own prodigal apprentice!
"They came true." Modera hissed, forcing herself to draw back as even though she was oh-so-tempted to go through with her whim of striking down the old fool who may well have damned their greatest ally, she could not. Antonidas was Archmage of Archmages for a reason. Instead, she drew the chill of the Great Dark Beyond into her throat, into her voice, and spoke with the Authority of the Heavens. "A plague spread through Lordaeron, a plague of Undead, and Arthas will be lured and tormented until he snaps. Slaughtering the population of Strathome, brought to Northrend, and corrupted."
There was more, but she hadn't been listening. She had been infuriated, angered, that her star pupil would use her largess to spout false prophecies of doom at her. It had taken much of her self-control to not snap and attack Gwyneth then and there, to disabuse her of the thought of insulting the Prince she considered to be like family.
King Terenas was a personal friend, she and Drenden had always been those who worked most closely with the line of Menethil. They took turns as advisors in the king's court.
The thought that his son would ever fall was not one she could comprehend.
Could have comprehended. Oh how wrong she had been, oh how stupid, how foolish. What reason did Gwyneth have to lie? What did she gain?
Nothing. She had rejected becoming an apprentice. She had been offered the sun and stars and had refused. There was nothing for her to gain by saying what she did.
"That is what we were warned of, four years ago. And even when I, so foolishly and arrogantly, dismissed her prophecies as false she tried to spread the word. To inform those of the city of what was to come." Modera said, her voice aching with regret. She should have listened. She should have worked with her student to find the truth behind her visions, to draw her deeper into the mysteries of Divination. It was not infallible, no prophecy was infallible, but there was always some meaning to be found. "Those are the rumours you heard, Lady Proudmoore. The rumours your master banished Gwyneth Arevin from Dalaran for speaking."
"I remember this," Drenden said, remaining shrouded. "My fellow councillor was quite distraught at her chosen apprentice being banished before she could claim her."
Lord Uther took in a deep breath, the blaze of Light he was giving off receding. "Is this true, Antonidas? Did you banish one who foretold all the suffering we have witnessed?"
Slowly, ever so slowly, Antonidas inclined his head. "It is so. An apprentice was within our city and spreading foul rumours concerning the prince prior to his visit. I thought to remove them before the Prince arrived, before his men got wind of her. I think the Royal Guards–"
"Do not make it out to have been a kindness!" Modera snapped. "You removed her because you decided the life of a mere apprentice was worth less than Dalaran appearing the model of a loyal member of the Alliance, nothing more!"
"We... we could have stopped this?" Jaina said, her voice quivering. "We could have stopped this plague, we could have stopped Arthas, before it even began?" She looked upon Antonidas with something akin to hate in her eyes. "You taught me Dalaran was a city for all to feel safe in. Even in Boralus, there are people who speak out against the Proudmoores, against our Alliance with the Menethils. Against my... my relationship with Arthas. And we let them. But you muzzled a young woman–"
"Girl." Modera interrupted. "A girl of twelve, so desperate to be heard she told any and all she could."
"You muzzled a girl, a child and threw her out just– just to appease Arthas when he was courting me?!"
"It was not–"
"I think you've spoken enough, Antonidas." Ansirem snapped from his place in the shadows. "Done enough damage."
"Indeed, but let us put the matter of Antonidas'... overreach aside for now," Kael'Thas said, his perturbation seeping through despite the alteration of his voice. "We have more pressing matters. What is to be done with Prince Arthas?"
"His Majesty has already issued an order for his return, but the whole of the North Fleet was taken by Arthas from the ports of Stratholme," Uther said, not letting up his gaze on Antonidas. "I would be surprised if there was a single ship capable of the northern crossing remaining upon the northern coasts. I would welcome suggestions."
There was a moment of silence before Drenden spoke up. "Where is the nearest capable port that hosts vessels capable of the journey?"
"Quel'Thalas," Kael'Thas said, "Though my father holds little fondness for Terenas or his son. Perhaps I could charter a ship to carry an emissary north... but as likely as not the Convocation would block me." He shook his head bitterly, dropping his own shadowy illusion. "I am sorry for your loss, Jaina."
The Lady Proudmoore stared at the elf who had once courted her affection, blinking away new tears that formed, before turning to look at the shadowy Drenden. "It will take weeks for a ship from the capital port to escape Lordamere Lake and round the Cape of Tears," She said emptily, "a Galleon from my home could be called up sooner, but the time it would take to summon one would remove what small advantage in time we gained."
"There is always Gilneas." Ansirem said, "They have a fleet–
"And they have made their position clear," Antonidas said, glaring at Ansirem. "Arugal failed to convince Genn to remain within the Alliance – if he tried at all."
"Can you not simply teleport to Northrend?" Uther demanded, "I know you are capable of such feats."
"There is a great deal of–"
"To teleport to an unknown–"
"The calculations behind–"
Modera sighed, waving her hand for the others to let her speak. She felt tired, so very, very tired. "Teleportation is a matter of utilising Arcane magic to create a bridge between two points through the Leylines of Azeroth. The Caster is one point and the Destination is the other. Over a distance greater than a few hundred feet, there must be some form of target involved, as well as a thorough map of the Leylines to ensure that no unforeseen disturbances strike the spell and harm those transitioning. We have no such target in Northrend, nor an accurate map of the Leylines that lay there."
Teleportation was one of her stronger aspects, her intense study of Mathematics to allow her to plot the courses of the Heavens and their deviations for her Divinations of great aid to her Telemancy. It was not her specialisation and yet, of all the Archmages on the council, she was the only one to have travelled as far as Stormwind in a single trip without a Portal Master on the other end.
Had they a base camp properly calibrated and established in Northrend she would consider the option, no matter the horrendous disturbances and unknown wardings present in that frozen hellscape, but they did not.
Lord Uther bowed his head in acknowledgement. "I understand. Thank you, Archmage, for the explanation."
"Who did the girl speak with?" Jaina asked, looking up at them. "Who were her friends? Who might she have confided in– if she knows more, then we have to find her."
"Jaina, I understand you are hurting but chasing after a mad prophet–"
"Twice! Twice you dismiss someone as a mad prophet!" She snapped, hoarfrost forming under her feet. "First this girl, whom I didn't even know of, and then the raven prophet who foretold doom! He came to Arthas, and he spoke the truth– the harder Arthas tried to save his people... the faster he delivered them right into their hands. They have both been proven right, master. You..." She stared at Antonidas, who remained stone-faced.
For all Drenden mocked Modera's fascination with divination, he listened to her when she spoke. He listened to the things she foretold. Antonidas did not trust in any future save the one he saw with his own eyes; believed that the only form of foretelling worth trusting was time travel.
Jaina shook her head, her hood falling back and her blonde hair falling askew, frizzing and fraying as if she had not groomed herself in several days. "You refused to listen then, do you refuse to listen now?"
"I should have listened," Modera said, stepping forward from her place and down onto the central dais with their guests. "I deeply regret that I did not listen." She laughed, a bitter and hard choking laugh. "If you have met another prophet, I would hear of them, Lady Proudmoore."
Antonidas glowered at Modera, ready to speak, but Kael'Thas cut him off.
"We digress from the matter at hand," He said, shaking his head faintly at Modera and she stepped back. The Prince was right, as much as she enjoyed the thought of winning his apprentice out from under him it wasn't the time. "Whether or not the girl is mad she has information of value, and Lady Proudmoore's words have merit. Modera, you were closest to her. What classes did she attend? Whom did she associate with? Where did she come from and can we find her again?"
Modera looked at Jaina, who nodded. She would hear of this other prophet after this meeting. "My own Astromancy,
Magus Corrinth's Biomancy, and Enchanter Holdfast's Magical Tailoring. When I investigated her departure–" She settled for no more than a short glare at Antonidas, "–I learned she had also entered tutelage under Instructor Calebren in the Veteran's fields."
She remembered Gwyneth had something of a friendship with Trysa, one of her better students from that year, but was largely too busy to look into their lives in any great detail. Outside of her the fact her desired apprentice spoke with a thick Gilnean accent and hailed from somewhere by the sea she didn't know where she was from. With luck, they would find out more in the coming days as they investigated those she had befriended during her stay in Dalaran.
-oOoOo-
Calebren stepped onto the dais and closed his eyes, his stomach churning and rebelling as he was teleported to the highest point in the Violet Citadel. The chill wind that blew through the Chamber of Air told him he had arrived but rather than opening his eyes again he took several deep breaths, the biting chill seeping into his lungs, as he steadied himself.
"Still hate teleporting, I see." The First councillor said from their podium, the shifting of their voice not hiding their amusement. "It has been some time, Calebren."
"Not long enough." He grunted, prying his eyes open. Five of the six, more than usual but still not the whole lot. And here he thought they'd called him up here because something important had happened. "What does the Council of Six ask of me this day?"
He had been there, at Blackrock Spire, when Lothar fell. He had been among those ordered to watch over Nethergarde Keep in the aftermath of the war. One of the seven mages who escaped the horde's second invasion and the loss of the Keep to bring word back to the Alliance that they were coming.
This would make the seventh time he had been called into the Chamber of Air for one reason or another. He doubted it would turn out any better than the last.
"Five years ago you took part in the education of an unusual apprentice, by the name of Gwyneth Arevin." The Second Councillor said, "We–"
"Should we not wait for the others to arrive?" the First interrupted.
Calebren raised an eyebrow, carefully examining the disguised council members. Though their looks and appearance were hidden, their voices changed and made somewhat flat, they never did anything to hide their body language. Even if one made their face a blank black mask, their posture, and their gestures, the way they stood and held themselves could tell a great story.
And what Calebren was seeing was that the First had done something to earn the ire of at least three of the others.
He might not know the name of the one who had the girl thrown out of the city back then, but he certainly knew which one here had done it. Girl's predictions had started coming true already and had them worried it seemed; he'd suspected as much when he got the summons. A plague that turned people into zombies was a bit too much for it all to be a coincidence.
"If you're talking about Goldensword then she's left the city already." A good part of him scorned her for leaving, but he knew why she had. She had a kid, and for a mother, that was more important than anything else. Kid was cute too; badgered him to teach her how to use a sword and actually put the effort in to learn. "Went off to Kul Tiras to let Finnall meet her father's family at last."
No question she did it because of the rumours about Stratholme that had leaked. No one really knew what happened up there, not yet, but he remembered what he'd been told well enough and he'd put good money on the little prophet being right.
As he'd told her back then, if someone warned him about the destruction of the city he'd listen to a light damned pigeon. Ended up entertaining a lot of doomsayers over the years, fools were as common as candles in a kobold den, but if a single one of them proved to be right and helped him protect Dalaran it was worth it.
"That answers why she is not in attendance." The Third councillor said, turning to the Fourth. "If she took a ship she could not be out of the Silverpine canal yet, a swift flier could intercept the Sorceress and bring her in for questioning."
"Indeed, we should consider..."
"We should explore all of our options before..."
"There's no reason for us to force..."
Calebren focused on keeping his gaze steady and not looking down at all while the councillors argued over whether they should send someone to recover Klinar or not. Wasn't really his business whether they did or didn't, she wouldn't come back willingly so long as she thought her kid would be in danger here. If the council wanted to start a fight with a Sorceress and her family back in Quel'Thalas that was up to them.
Wasn't something he wanted to get involved with, even with the backing of the Council that kind of thing could haunt a mage for decades. Elves held grudges for far too long.
Something he knew from experience.
"We have other options," the Second said, cutting across the others. "Our priority is finding the source of information and not relying on what those she told remember after five years." They turned to face Calebren, or rather the arrival dais. "Magus Corrinth is also not arriving."
Calebren snorted. "Her? She was with Goldensword last I saw her, she's practically an aunt to Finnall and probably went with them."
"And now–" Whatever the Third was saying cut off into a veiled whisper as the council shielded their discussion from him.
He rather wished they'd just get on with the questioning. Ansirem knew full well how much he hated being in the Chamber of air, the old bastard, and should get it over with so he could go lie down and let the world stop swooping and diving.
Why did the first council decide they needed to meet at the top of the spire in a completely open chamber anyway? It's not like they needed to show off they could levitate an entire room, the floating pinnacle of the Violet Citadel was visible for dozens of miles of countryside around the city!
"Instructor Calebren." The Second said, breaking the whispers. "As it appears you are our best available source of information, the Council of Six compels you to provide all the knowledge the prophet Gwyneth Arevin granted you during her stay in Dalaran."
Calebren tilted his head back, staring up at the intricate depictions of the hundred mages of the Troll Wars and their magic winning the war for Thoradin before Dalaran had been founded. He snorted as he looked into the blank face of the Second councillor.
"Thought you'd never ask. Don't remember all of it, and she was sparse on some details, but here's how it goes..."
He didn't abridge the tale any more than he had to due to faulty memory. The key points stood out, as did the things he'd planned on watching out for; the Plague, the deaths in Stratholme, the King, the return of that creepy git Kel'Thuzad as a Lich, Quel'Thalas – and how obvious were you going to make it that you were member three, Prince Kael'Thas? Not like it was a secret you were on the council in the first place, everyone knew that – and finally the falling towers of Dalaran and the summoning of a demon named Archimonde.
For a moment Calebren had thought the name would elicit some kind of reaction or recognition from the old and wise council, but it didn't. None of them recognised the name as far as he could tell.
Didn't mean that much, there were a lot of dangerous demons out there and he'd never heard of one capable of magic on that scale. Quite possibly no one on Azeroth had. Or the girl had just gotten the name wrong, divination was never the best with details and names like that.
It took the council a while to even start whispering again, and far longer to pay attention to him. But eventually, they did.
"Instructor Calebren, do you have any knowledge of Gwyneth Arevin's place of residence?"
Calebren snorted, shaking his head. "I taught her to fight. I didn't make friends with her. She was a good student but I don't bother anyone about where they came from." She'd been friendly with a couple of others, though. "Alana Firesworn might know." Silly girl had taken a name in the elven style to distance herself from her parents and hadn't even bothered to put it in Thalassian. If the Light were willing it wouldn't be the start of a trend, it sounded like pretentious bullshit to him.
"Her friends and peers, yes." The Second said, nodding their head. "Thank you for your time, Instructor. If we have further questions we will contact you directly."
It took great effort not to sigh. He knew what that meant and he hated it. Last time he'd been teleported from his bed and dumped into an emergency meeting after the sixth councillor had shown up late, demanding their own chance to grill him on what happened at Netherguard.
"I understand, I serve the will of the Violet Citadel," Calebren said, bowing deeply. He steeled himself for what was coming and just about managed to not lose his breakfast as he returned to the ground floor of the tower.
Why couldn't they use portals? Portals were calm, teleporting was horrifying.
