Magister Luminash Dawnwing

The Ghostlands remained ever a place of desolation. Here, perhaps, a more desolate place than any for the last children of the Dawnwing line. Among the ruins of the once-proud Dawnwing estate, before a monument of smooth, white marble, starkly pristine in a land of decay, knelt Luminash and Theras, speaking in unison.

“To your memory, Selius Dawnwing, father, magister, and true scion of the Highborne, your son dedicates this flame.”

“To your memory, Selius Dawnwing, grandfather, magister, and true scion of the Highborne, your grandson dedicates this flame.”

Father and son whispered a soft prayer in Thalassian as they knelt before the monument, the magister’s hand cupped over a candle in one of the lower recesses, eyes...

( Occurs after the events of the Eternal Palace. )

“Get up.”

Lithendras started awake on his stone bench. As he sat up, groggily, he sighed, “You have returned. I suppose…this is it, then? The end we have been awaiting?”

Luminash, instead of confirming the Ren’dorei’s suspicion, however, shook his head, “Perhaps not. We must speak.”

The Rift Warden rubbed his eyes, weary as he was, with the heel of his palms, “What about are we to speak, Luminash? I fear there is little left to discuss.”

The magister shuffled scrolls on his desk about idly, his shoulders and body tense, words coming uncharacteristically slowly, “We breached the palace. The Horde and Alliance, jointly…” He looked back briefly to gauge...

(Takes place prior to the conclusion of events at the Eternal Palace and Luminash’s departure from Nazjatar. )

“Hey, you’re here! Why stay up on the hill, anyway, mage-man?”

Luminash had come into Newhome only to pick up supplies, and had hoped to avoid any further contact with the locals. Mac, however, one of the Kelfin siblings who had helped the magister by salvaging naga sites throughout Nazjatar, had seen him, and eagerly run up to him.

“Ah, Mac, it is good to see you,” the magister deflected, “Have our Horde troops been suitable guests here?”

“Yeah, yeah, we’ve loved having them! Good people, your Horde, more than willing to help out. Half the hauls we’ve been sending your way have been brought in with...

“Any news from the field, Magister?”

The voice of Luminash’s Ren’dorei prisoner was muffled by the folds of space that kept Lithendras contained within a corner of the magister’s ruined spire. Further distorting his voice was the soft hum of runic wards surrounding the makeshift cell.

As Luminash entered through the open arch, the sun just beginning to set as it had days ago when Lithendras had first made his presence in Nazjatar known, he grimaced.

“You are still awake? I had hoped you had nodded off again so I would not have to hear you prattle on,” Luminash said dismissively, setting a few scrolls carried under his arm on his desk.

Ignoring the jab, Lithendras continued, “Are your friends well, the small ones,...

( Follows previous story posts, and takes place before the events of the Eternal Palace. )

With a sickening crunch, Lithendras’ body was hurled up and into the wall of Luminash’s tower, waves of arcane power pummeling him, and bonds constricting him, leaving his limbs to dangle helplessly below. The glow of magic was the only light in the darkened room, save the eyes of the magister and Rift Warden.

“Why have you come here, Ren’dorei? You dare show your face to me, with all the blood on your hands?”

The fury that had risen in Luminash upon hearing the familiar deep rasp of the Rift Warden’s voice - a sound seared into his mind in Nazmir, punctuated by the slaughter in his camp and the ensuing bloodbath at Dazar’alor -...

“You’re really stayin’ up there?” The gilgoblin asked as she pointed up into the coral-lined crags over Newhome, into the distance, a ruined Highborne tower barely visible hidden in the haze of seaspray.

Luminash nodded, “I am.”

His interlocutor only drummed her feet on the side of the Horde-marked crate she was sitting on, “Huh.“ After a long moment of silence between the two, she spoke up again, too loudly; the magister started at the sudden intrusion on his thoughts.

“You like livin’ up there? Seems like you’d lack for company.”

“What? I…” He shook his head, “I suppose I do, well enough. It is quiet, and allows me to think more clearly. It is also near enough Newhome to resupply, as you well...

Luminash’s eyes snapped open, and he winced. The first thing he noticed was the pain, the scrapes, the bruises, the feeling of warm blood only beginning to dry. The next he noticed was the ground beneath him. It was rocky, barely concealed by damp sand, jutting stones and coral all around. Shakily, he pushed himself to his feet, the sharp stone digging into his hands and knees as he pushed upwards.

                                                     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

The hull of the Zandalari ship creaked around the magister as he climbed the ladder from the hold to the upper deck. Many of the other Thalassian personnel who were part of the Regent Lord’s retinue...

(For context, these letters are collected and take place after Luminash's involvement in the lead-up to the Battle of Dazar'alor, detailed in earlier entries)

A handful of letters, each bearing the seal of a different Thalassian office, lay open on Luminash’s desk.

Magister Dawnwing,

Your request has been noted, but I regret to inform you that, at this time, and despite your exemplary service towards our organization since its inception, the Reliquary cannot dedicate further resources towards your proposal.

While the finds you and your team recovered from Nazmir may helpful in understanding the role of the Titans in the early development of our new allies’ society, the risk of putting resources towards another expedition to...

(continued from Captive Audience)

“I saw your Horde for what it is: a force of destruction, callous and unrelenting.”

“Either leave me here to die, or muster the courage to kill me yourself. I will not serve you, your people, or your Void, and nothing you do or say here will change my mind.” 

Did they die for me?

The words swam to and fro in the Magister’s mind, even as he looked out over Dazar’alor from the balcony of the Horde embassy at the Great Seal. It had been days, now, since Horde forces had extracted him from Nazmir in the wake of the Alliance’s feint. Days since he had fought through the Zocalo, calling on what little strength he had left. Days since the Golden Fleet had been crushed, the Zandalari broken....

(continued from The Waiting)

The air reeked of death, still thick with fog, a cold and damp that permeated everything it touched, tendrils seeping into torn, burned, and bloodied tents, a shroud for the bodies of Reliquary diggers, fingers still wrapped around their makeshift weapons, bodies pincushions for Kaldorei arrows, Thalassian guardians, their armor torn to pieces by worgen claws, and the Alliance attackers themselves - a mingling graveyard of Gilneans, Kaldorei, fiery-haired Dark Iron dwarves, and a handful of the Ren’dorei traitors. The soil, too, reeked of blood. Already damp, it had become a frothing marsh of blood and filth, discarded weapons and mangled bodies peering from the torn earth.

How many had died here,...

(Continued from Still Air)

The realization hardly had time to set in before action had to be taken. The Reliquary camp had come under attack, their Nightborne allies mysteriously vanished from the perimeter, their wards tainted by the Void, their communication and visibility swallowed up, like all else, in the fog of Nazmir.

“Get as many of us as you can, I don’t care who - diggers, guards, arcanists, anyone you can find! - get them to the center of the camp. We are going to have to defend ourselves!” Luminash ordered the lead digger, who had been the bearer of the bad news.

The nervous, fearful man nodded, and mouthed under his breath as he receded into the inky blackness, “Eternal Sun guide us now.”

Luminash ducked back...

“What do you make of it?

“This fog? Thick, yes, but another natural hazard of this vile swamp, no doubt,” Luminash responded to the Reliquary digger, “It has certainly not been a pleasant outing, even before this.”

“Why did it not roll in for a week, then? I won’t lie, there is something unsettling about it, unnatural,” the digger replied, his bare, dirt-covered arms hugged to his chest, a tiny pin barely visible on his dusty red and gold tunic marking him as the lead digger of the site.

The wan sun filtered through the jungle canopy above and lit the thick fog like fire, a red-orange mist consuming all it touched. It had appeared suddenly a few hours before, the entire expedition camp swallowed up in it, a fog so...

A world away, Teldrassil was burning. The Horde - his people - had sparked the flame.

Luminash paced the perimeter of his study, steps sweeping by piles of scrolls and books on their shelves, one foot in front of the other, following the gilded circle a few feet from the circular outer wall. He passed by his desk again, eyes drifting over the letter he had received earlier that day as he continued his circling.

Dawnwing,

The Alliance gathers in Lordaeron.

-Telivathus

A warning from an old friend to flee, or a call to action? That question had rolled around his mind now for hours. Hiding in the safety of Dalaran, or fighting to ensure safety in Quel’Thalas?

As the magister circled the room, he clutched the golden-blue crystal held...