Magister Luminash Dawnwing

Imperfect Recollection

(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. Days since the Horde’s - his people’s - future had been thrown into flux.

How long, he wondered, would it take for the Alliance, bolstered by the Kul Tiran fleet, to move on Quel’Thalas, isolated as it was from its allies?

The city of Dazar’alor, once splendid in gold, verdant jungle growth sprouting in pockets on its winding terraces lined with shrines to endless loa, still reeled, scarred by the Alliance attack. The fires had mostly been put out, most of the rubble and ruin was cleared, but pockets of damage remained. The twin moons in the sky illumined what was left in shades of black and blue twinkling off the shattered gold.

Despite the cityscape before him, however, the magister could scarcely look away from his hands. In the deepening dusk, in the solitude he had carved for himself, away from prying eyes, he had taken off his gloves. Hands that were once pale and smooth were marred and blackened, like Dazar’alor itself. There was no pain, but the mark was indelible, the touch of the Void.

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Luminash had held for as long as he could. The barrier surrounding the Reliquary camp’s center was failing - stray arrows from Kaldorei archers on the outskirts whistled by, finding their marks in the hearts of what few of his allies remained. His abilities were pushed nearly to their limit - he was a beacon in the camps’ center, surging with power, eyes flashing, bolts of energy hurled from his hands crashing into the Alliance forces pushing into the camp. It was not enough. He knew from the start that it was never going to be.

The final few defenders had rallied around the magister, their shields up, interlocked. That, too, was done to no avail. The barrier was parting, and with shouts in Dwarven from beyond, waves of flame arced through the air towards the shields, once, twice, a third time. The first, Luminash turned away, the second he averted, the flames crashing harmlessly against a bubble of warped space. The third, though, with the magister so taxed, crashed through, tearing into the Reliquary guardians and scattering them amidst an inferno; it was all Luminash could do to shield himself from the blast, and even he was thrown to the ground.

His ears rang, the din of battle growing silent, distant, muffled. He pushed himself up, the bronze-cast mask protecting his face falling away, a crack splitting its features. His vision, too, was fuzzy, senses failing after the explosion. He could see still, however, a renewed push by the Alliance over the barricades his people had erected, boots trampling the bodies of their allies and enemies alike in their haste to finish off the Reliquary force.

Struggling to his feet, Luminash breathed deep, the arcane flowing into him, a torrent, yet a tiny stream of something vast, infinite, and beyond comprehension. He could hear the sound of something cracking, stones, or glass, all around him, arcane crystals adorning both his fallen comrades and his own robes releasing their power, all drawn inward in this desperate moment. His limbs, slack, were filled with enough vigor to push ahead. Raising a trembling arm, he opened his hand, and let the power he held flow forth.

A handful of Alliance troops - Dark Irons, perhaps those responsible for the flames - were consumed by the surge, their bodies thrown to the ground, crackling and warped by the disturbance in space.

There was no time for control, not now, none for direction, for art, or finesse. Luminash alone remained, but alone he would not die. He was a conduit, nothing more, a force rather than a man. His other hand raised, an open palm, abruptly closed, and another handful of troops screamed as their armor constricted around them, the very space around their bodies pressing inward, crushing the life from them with their cries.

Another motion of the arms, another wave flowed forth, and more fell. Arrows, blades, flame, all sought the magister. Some stopped in midair, some bent unnaturally, curving around the magister, his form a blinding beacon once more. Some simply passed directly through him. Those who dared approach found themselves thrown to the earth by an unearthly force, pressed and crushed until only a crumpled mass remained.

The mass of Alliance troops that had once rushed the barricades now had turned, their mad rush driving them back. In a matter of moments, Luminash found himself in the middle of an empty camp, alone with the fallen and their shadows.

The magister’s breathing had gone ragged, his steps grown slow, and the moment the camp grew quiet, he felt all his strength depart as quickly as it had come. Knees gave way, and behind him as he fell, a trail of violet, the power he had directed flowing freely forth into the aether. His hands struck loamy soil first as he fell, then his shoulder as he found himself lying on the marshy ground, all power gone. In that moment, the shadows themselves began to shift.

If anything had been said to him at that time, Luminash had not heard it. If anything living moved, he had barely seen it. He felt something, though, unnatural and malevolent wrap around his hands and wrists and begin to drag him through the camp, towards his own tent. It was familiar, from Argus, from being lost in the vast, empty expanse of black. There was no pain, now, only its cold, dark touch on his skin.

The last thing he saw as he was pulled away and the strength loosed itself from his body entirely was the face of the Reliquary’s lead digger, his form obscured both by fog and by the dirt of the swamp, his face burned nearly beyond recognition, growing more and more distant, until nothing was left in sight but night.

His charge. His responsibility.

His failure.

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Luminash clenched his hands into fists, watching the muscles and tendons work beneath the surface of skin that did not look his own. He shuddered at the memory, so strange, surreal, and imperfect. How had he survived? The things he remembered scarcely seemed true - improbable, foolish, perhaps the product of a damaged mind? What else had the grasp of the Void - the Rift Warden, Lithendras, he now knew - touched?

Shaking his head, he dispelled these thoughts, and looked back out over Dazar’alor as he pulled his gloves back on, putting his wounds out of sight and out of mind.

Two thoughts yet remained, however, inescapable, even in the calming glow of the moons.

Did they die for me?

“Until we meet again.”